• 


- 


. 


••• 
•    •    •   . 


. 

. 


'Not  just  yet;  I  aint  quite  ready  1"— cage  410. 


411 


THE  GREAT  DETECTIVE  SERIES. 


OR, 


THE  EIYAL  DETECTIVES. 

BY 

LAWRENCE    L.    LYNCH, 

(OP  THE  SECRET  SERVICE.) 


Author  of  *'  Madeline  Payne,  the  Detective's  Daughter;"  "Out 

of  a  Labyrinth;"  "Shadowed  by  Three;"  "The 

Diamond  Coterie,"  etc.,  etc. 


CHICAGO: 
ALEX.  T.  LOYD  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS. 

1886. 


COPYRIGHT,  1885, 

BY  ALEX.  T.  LOYD  &  Co.,  CHICAGO. 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 

Dangerous  Ground. 


"Mamma  brings  the  candle  very  near  to  the  closed  eyes,  waving  it  to 
and  fro,  rapidly."— page  309. 

811 

2072343 


DANGEROUS  GROUND. 


PROLOGUE. 

TIME:  The  month  of  May.  The  year,  1859;  when  the, 
West  was  new,  aiid  the  life  of  the  Pioneer  difficult  and  dan- 
gerous. 

SCENE:  A  tiny  belt  of  timber,  not  far  from  the  spot  where 
not  long  before,  the  Marais  des  Cygnes  massacre  awoke  the 
people  of  south-eastern  Kansas,  and  kindled  among  them 

the  flames  of  civil  war. 

I. 

It  is  a  night  of  storm  and  darkness.  Huge  trees  are 
bending  their  might,  and  branches,  strong  or  slender,  are 
swaying  and  snapping  under  a  fierce  blast  from  the  north- 
ward. 

Night  has  closed  in,  but  the  £'V»stly  light  of  a  reluctant 
camp  fire  reveals  a  small  group  of  men  gathered  about  its 
blaze;  and  back  of  them,  more  in  the  shelter  of  the  timber,  a 
few  wagons, — prairie  schooners  of  the  .staunchest  type — 
from  which,  now  and  then,  the  anxious  countenance  of  a 
woman,  or  the  eager,  curious  face  of  a  child ,  peers  out. 


10  DAKGEfiOUS  GROUND. 

There  has  been  rain,  and  fierce  lightning,  and  loud-roll- 
ing thunder ;  but  the  clouds  are  breaking  away,  the  rain 
has  ceased :  only  the  strong  gusts  of  wind  remain  to  make 
more  restless  the  wakeful  travellers,  and  rob  the  weary, 
nervous  ones  of  their  much  needed  sleep. 

"Where's  Pearson?"  queries  a  tall,  strong  man,  who 
speaks  as  one  having  authority.  "  I  have  not  seen  him 
since  the  storm  began." 

"  Pearson  ?"  says  another,  who  is  crouching  over  the 
flickering  fire  in  the  effort  to  light  a  stubby  pipe.  "  By 
ginger!  I  haven't  thought  of  the  fellow;  why,  he  took  his 
blanket  and  went  up  yonder,"  indicating  the  direction  by 
a  jerk  of  the  short  pipe  over  a  brawny  shoulder — "  before 
the  storm,  you  know ;  said  he  was  going  to  take  a  doze  up 
there;  he  took  a  fancy  to  the  place  when  we  crossed  here 
before." 

"  But  he  has  been  down  since  ?" 

"  Haint  seen  him.  Good  Lord,  you  don't  suppose  the 
fellow's  been  sleepin'  through  all  this?" 

Parks,  the  captain  of  the  party,  stirs  uneasily,  and  turns 
his  face  towards  the  wagons. 

"  There's  been  some  fearful  lightnin',  sir,"  breaks  in  an- 
other of  the  group.  "'Taint  likely  a  man  would  sleep 
through  all  this,  but — " 

He  stops  to  stare  after  Parks,  who,  with  a  swift  impul- 
sive movement  of  the  right  hand,  has  turned  upon  his  heel, 
and  is  moving  toward  the  wagons. 

"Mrs.  Krutzer,"  he  calls,  halting  beside  the  one  most 
remote  from  the  camp  fire. 

"What  is  wanted?"  answers  a  shrill,  feminine  voice. 

"  Is  the  little  one  with  you?" 


PROLOGUE.  11 

"Yes."  This  time  there  is  a  ring  of  impatience  in  the  voice. 

"  Have  you  seen  Pearson  since  the  storm  ?" 

"  My  gracious !  No." 

"  How  is  Krutzer  ?" 

"  No  better;  the  storm  has  doubled  him  up  like  a  snake. 
Do  you  want  him  ?" 

"Not  if  he  can't  walk." 

"Well  he  can't ;  not  a  step." 

"  Then  good-night,  Mrs.  Krutzer."  And  Parks  returns 
to  the  men  at  the  fire. 

"There's  something  wrong,"  he  says,  with  quiet  gravity. 

"  Pearson  has  not  been  near  the  child  since  the  storm. 
Get  your  lanterns,  boys;  we  will  go  up  the  hill." 

It  is  only  a  slight  elevation,  with  a  pyramid  of  rocks, 
one  or  two  wide-spreading  trees;  and  a  fringe  of  lesser 
growth  at  the  summit. 

A  moment  the  lanterns  flash  about,  while  the  men  con- 
verse in  low  tones.  Then  one  of  them  exclaims : 

"  Here  he  is !  Pearson  ;  Heavens,  man,  wake  up !" 

But  the  still  form  outstreched  upon  the  water-soaked 
blanket,  and  doubly  sheltered  by  the  great  rocks  and  bend- 
ing branches,  moves  not  in  response  to  his  call. 

They  crowd  about  him,  and  Walter  Parks  bends  closer 
and  lets  the  full  light  of  the  lantern  he  carries,  fall  upon 
the  still  face. 

"Good  God!" 

He  sinks  upon  one  knee  beside  the  prostrate  form;  he 
touches  the  face,  the  hands ;  looks  closer  yet,  and  says  in  a 
husky  voice,  as  he  puts  the  lantern  down : 

"  He's  dead,  boys !" 

They  cluster  about  that  silent,  central  figure.     One  by 


12  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

one  they  touch  it;  curiously,  reverently,  tenderly  or  timidly, 
according  as  their  various  natures  are. 

Then  a  chorus  of  exclamations,  low,  fierce,  excited. 

"  How  was  it  ?" 

"Was  he  killed?" 

"The  storm—" 

"More  likely,  Injuns." 

"No,  Bob,  it  wasn't  Indians,"  says  Parks  mournfully, 
"for  here's  his  scalp." 

And  he  tenderly  lays  a  brown  hand  upon  the  abundant 
locks  of  his  dead  comrade,  sweeping  them  back  from  the 
forehead  with  a  caressing  movement. 

Then  suddenly,  with  a  sharp  exclamation  that  is  almost 
a  shriek,  the  hand  drops  to  his  side;  he  recoils,  he  bounds 
to  his  feet;  then,  turning  his  face  to  the  rocks,  he  lets  the 
darkness  hide  the  look  of  unutterable  horror  that  for  a  mo- 
ment overspread  it,  changing  at  length  to  an  expression  of 
sternness  and  fixed  resolve. 

Meantime  the  others  press  closer  about  the  dead  man, 
and  one  of  them,  taking  the  place  Parks  has  just  vacated, 
bends  down  to  peer  into  the  still,  set  face. 

"Boys,  look !"  he  cries  eagerly; "  look  here!"  and  he  points 
to  a  tiny  seared  spot  just  above  the  left  temple.  "That's 
a  burn,  and  here,  just  above  it,  the  hair  is  singed  away.  It's 
lightning,  boys." 

Again  they  peer  into  the  dead  face,  and  utter  fresh  ex- 
clamations of  horror.  Then  liValter  Parks,  whose  emotion 
they  have  scarcely  noticed,  turns  toward  them  and  looks 
closely  at  the  seared  spot  upon  the  temple. 

"Boys,"  he  asks,  in  slow,  set  tones,  "did  you,  any  of 
you,  ever  see  a  man  killed  by  lightning?" 

They  all  stare  up  at  him,  and  no  one  answers. 


"They  cluster  about  that  silent,  central  figure.     One  by  one  they 
touch  it;  curiously,  reverently." — page  12. 

13 


14  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Because,"  he  proceeds,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "I 
never  saw  the  effects  of  a  lightning  stroke,  and  don't  feel 
qualified  to  judge." 

"It's  lightnin',"  says  the  man  called  Bob,  in  a  positive 
voice;  "I've  never  seen  a  case,  but  I've  read  of  'em. 
It's  lightnin',  sure." 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  breaks  in  another.  "What  else  can 
it  be  ?  There  ain't  an  Injun  about  and  besides — " 

A  sharp  flash  of  lightning,  instantly  followed  by  a  loud 
peal  of  thunder,  interrupts  this  speech,  and,  when  they 
can  hear  his  voice,  Parks  says,  quietly : 

"I  suppose  you  are  right,  Menard.  Now,  let's  take 
him  down  to  the  wagons;  quick,  the  rain  is  coming 
again." 

Slowly  they  move  down  the  hill  with  their  burden, 
Walter  Parks  supporting  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the 
dead.  And  as  they  go,  one  of  them  says: 

"  Shall  I  run  ahead  and  tell  the  Krutzers?" 

"No,"  replies  Parks,  sternly;  "we  will  take  him  to 
my  wagon.  I  will  inform  Mrs.  Krutzer." 

So  they  lay  him  in  the  wagon  belonging  to  their  leader, 
and  before  they  leave  him  there  Parks  does  a  strange 
thing.  He  takes  off  the  oil-skin  cap  from  his  own  head 
and  pulls  it  tight  upon  the  head  of  the  dead  man.  Then 
he  strides  over  to  the  wagon  occupied  by  the  Krutzers. 

n. 

A  flickering,  sputtering  candle,  lights  up  the  interior 
of  a  large  canvas-covered  wagon.  On  a  narrow  pallet 
across  oiie  side  of  the  vehicle^  a  man  tosses  and  groans, 


PROLOGUE.  15 

now  and  then  turning  his  haggard  face,  and  staring,  blood- 
shot eyes,  upon  a  woman  who  crouches  near  him,  holding 
upon  her  knees  a  child  of  two  summers,  who  slumbers 
peacefully  through  the  storm,  with  its  fair  baby  face  up- 
turned to  the  flickering  candle.  In  the  corner,  opposite 
the  woman,  lies  a  boy  of  perhaps  ten  years,  ragged,unkempt, 
and  fast  asleep. 

A  blaze  of  lightning  and  a  rush  of  wind  cause  the 
man  to  cry  out  nervously,  and  then  to  exclaim,  peevishly: 

"Oh,  I  wish  the  morning  would  come;  this  is  horrible !" 

"  Hush,  Krutzer,"  says  the  woman,  in  a  low,  hissing  whis- 
per; "you  act  like  a  fool." 

She  bends  forward  and  lays  the  sleeping  child  beside 
the  dirty  boy  in  the  corner.  Then  she  lifts  her  head  and 
listens. 

"  Hush !"  she  whispers  again ;  "they  are  astir  outside;  I 
hear  them  talking.  Ah  !  some  one  is  coming." 

"Mrs.  Krutzer." 

It  is  the  voice  of  Walter  Parks,  and  this  time  the  woman 
parts  the  tent  flap  and  looks  out. 

"Is  that  you,  Mr.  Parks?  I  thought  I  heard  voices 
out  there.  Is  the  storm  doing  any  damage  ?" 

"  Not  at  present.     Is  Krutzer  awake?" 

She  glances  toward  the  form  upon  the  pallet;  it  is  shiver- 
ing as  with  an  ague.  Then  she  says,  unhesitatingly: 

"Krutzer  has  been  in  such  misery  since  this  storm  came 
up,  that  I've  just  given  him  morphine.  He  ain't  exactly 
asleep,  but  he's  stupid  and  flighty ;  get  into  the  wagon, 
Mr.  Parks,  and  see  how  he  is  for  yourself.  Poor  man ; 
this  is  the  fifth  day  of  his  rheumatism,  and  he  has  not 
gtood  on  his  feet  once  in  that  time." 


16  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

The  visitor  hesitates  for  a  moment,  then  drawing  nearer 
and  lowering  his  tone  somewhat,  he  says  : 

"If  Krutzer  is  in  a  bad  state  now,  he  had  better  not 
know  what  I  have  come  to  tell.  Can  he  hear  me  as  I  speak?" 

"No;  not  if  you  don't  raise  your  voice." 

"  Pearson  is  dead,  Mrs.  Krutzer." 

She  starts,  gasps,  and  then,  with  her  head  protruding  from 
the  canvas,  asks,  huskily: 

"How?  when?  who?—" 

"  We  found  him  up  by  the  rocks,  lying  on  his  blanket — " 

"Killed?" 

"Killed;  yes." 

"How — how?"  she  almost  gasps. 

"There  is  a  burn  upon  his  head.  Menard  says  it  was 
a  stroke  of  lightning." 

"Oh,"  she  sighs,  and  sinks  back  in  the  wagon,  turning  her 
head  to  look  at  the  form  upon  the  pallet. 

"  Mrs.  Krutzer." 

She  leans  toward  him  again  and  listens  mutely. 

"We — Menard,  Joe  Blakesly,  and  myself — will  watch 
to-night  with  the  body.  We  know  very  little  about  Pearson, 
and  the  little  one;  what  can  you  tell  us?" 

"Not  much;"  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands  ner- 
vously. "It  was  like  this:  Pearson  joined  our  train 
just  before  we  crossed  Bear  Creek — beyond  the  reserve, 
you  know.  That  was  three  weeks  before  we  left  the 
others,  to  join  your  train.  The  child  was  ailing  at  the 
time,  and  so  Pearson  put  it  in  my  charge,  most  of  the  other 
women  having  more  children  than  I  to  take  care  of.  I 
liked  the  little  thing,  and  it  did  not  seem  a  trouble  to 
me;  so  after  a  while  Pearson  oflered  to  pay  me,  if  I 


PKOLOGUE.  17 

would  look  after  it  until  we  struck  God's  country.  But 
I  would  not  let  him  pay  me,  for  the  baby  seems  like  my 
own." 

"And  wowyMrs.  Krutzer?" 

"  I  am  coming  to  that.  Pearson  told  us,  at  the  first, 
that  the  little  girl  was  not  his  ;  that  its  father  was  a  miner 
back  among1  the  mountains.  Its  mother  was  dead,  and 

O  * 

the  father,  who  was  an  old  friend  of  Pearson's,  had  put 
it  in  his  care,  to  be  taken  to  New  York,  where  its 
relatives  live.  Pearson  was  obliged  to  quit  mining,  you 
know,  on  account  of  his  health/' 

"  Yes ;  do  you  know  the  address  of  the  child's  friends." 

"Yes;  it's  an  aunt,  her  father's  sister.  About  two 
weeks  ago — I  think  Pearson  must  have  had  a  presenti- 
ment or  something  of  the  kin<^ — lie  came  to  me,  and 
gave  me  a  letter  and  a  package,  saying  that  if  anything 
happened  to  him  during  the  trip,  he  wanted  me  to  see 
the  little  girl  safely  in  the  hands  of  her  relatives.  The 
letter  was  from  the  baby's  father,  and  the  packet  contained 
the  address  of  the  New  York  people,  and  enough  money 
to  pay  my  expenses  after  I  leave  the  wagon  train.  I  prom- 
ised Pearson  that  I  would  take  care  of  the  child  and  put 
her  safe  in  her  aunt's  hands,  and  so  I  will — but,  Oh,  dear ! 
I  never  expected  to  be  obliged  to  do  it." 

A  hollow  groan  breaks  upon  her  speech ;  the  man  upon 
the  pallet  is  writhing  as  if  in  intensest  agony.  The  woman 
makes  a  signal  of  dismissal,  and  drops  the  canvas  curtain. 

Walter  Parks  hesitates  a  moment,  and  then,  as  a 
second  groan  greets  his  ear,  turns  and  strides  away. 

2 


18  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

IIL 

The  clouds  hang  overhead  like  a  murky  canopy.  The 
wind  is  sighing  itself  to  sleep.  The  rain  has  ceased,  but 
large  drops  drip  dismally  from  the  great  branches  that 
lately  sheltered  Arthur  Pearson's  death-bed. 

Beside  the  rocks,  three  men  are  standing.  It  is  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Two  of  the  three  men  bend  down 
to  examine  something  which  the  third,  lighted  by  a  lantern, 
has  just  taken  from  the  wet  ground  at  his  feet. 

It  is  a  small  thing  to  excite  so  much  earnest  scrutiny ; 
only  the  half  burned  fragment  of  a  lucifer  match. 

"Boys,"  says  Walter  Parks,  solemnly,  swinging  the 
lantern  upon  his  arm  and  carefully  wrapping  the  bit  of 
match  in  a  paper  as  he  speaks,  "  poor  Pearson  was  never 
killed  by  lightning.  That  sear  upon  his  forehead  was  made 
by  the  simple  application  of  a  burning  match.  I've  seen 
men  killed  by  lightning." 

"  But  you  said — " 

"?so  matter  what  I  said  then,  Joe;  what  I  now  say  to 
you  and  Menard  is  the  truth.  You  have  promised  to  keep 
what  I  am  about  to  tell  you  a  secret,  and  to  act  according 
to  my  advice.  Menard,  Blakesly,  Arthur  Pearson  has 
been  foully  murdered!" 

"No!" 

"Parks,  you  are  mad  !" 

"  You  will  believe  the  evidence  of  your  own  senses, 
boys.  I  am  going  to  prove  what  I  assert." 

"  But  who  *>  how  *>— 

"Who? — ah,  that's  the  question  !  There  are  ten  men 
of  us ;  if  the  guilty  party  belongs  to  our  train,  we  will 


PROLOGUE.  19 

ferret  him  out  if  possible.  If  we  were  to  gather  all  our 
party  here,  and  show  them  how  poor  Pearson  met  his 
death,  the  assassin,  if  he  is  among  us,  would  be  warned, 
and  perhaps  escape." 

"True." 

"  Boys,  I  believe  that  the  assassin  is  among  us;  but  I 
have  not  the  faintest  suspicion  as  to  his  identity.  We 
are  ten  men  brought  together  by  circumstances.  We 
three  have  known  each  other  back  there  in  the  mining 
camps.  The  others  are  acquaintances  of  the  road ;  good 
fellows  so  far  as  we  know  them:  but  nine  of  us  ten  are 
innocent  men ;  one  is  a  murderer  !  Come,  now,  and  let 
me  prove  what -I  am  saying." 

As  men  who  feel  themselves  dreaming;  silently, 
slowly,  with  anxious  faces,  they  follow  their  leader  to 
the  wagon  where  the  dead  man  lies  alone. 

"Get  into  the  wagon,  boys;  here,  at  this  end,  and 
move  softly." 

It  is  done  and  the  three  men  crouch  close  together  about 
the  body  of  the  dead. 

"  Hold  the  lantern,  Joe.     There,  Menard  lift  his  head." 

Silently,  wonderingly,  they  obey  him. 

Then  Walter  Parks  removes  the  cap  from  the  lifeless 
head,  and  shudderingly  parts  away  the  thick  hair  from 
about  the  crown. 

"  Hold  the  lantern  closer,  Joe.  Look,  both  of  you ;  do 
you  see  that  f 

They  bend  closer ;  the  lantern's  ray  strikes  upon  some- 
thing tiny  and  bright. 

"  My  God  !"  cries  Joe  Blakesly,  letting  the  lantern  fall 
and  turning  away  his  face. 

"Parks,  what — what  is  it?" 


20  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  A  nail !  Touch  it,  boys  ;  see  the  hellish  cleverness 
of  the  crime ;  think  what  the  criminal  must  be,  to  drive 
that  nail  home  with  one  blow  while  poor  Pearson  lay 
sleeping,  and  then  to  rearrange  the  thick  hair  so  skill- 
fully. That  was  before  the  storm,  I  feel  sure.  If  we 
had  found  him  sooner,  there  might  have  been  no  mark 
upon  his  forehead.  Then  we,  in  our  ignorance,  would 
have  called  it  heart  disease,  and  poor  Pearson  would  have 
had  no  avenger.  After  the  storm,  the  cunning  villain 
crept  back,  struck  a  match,  and  applied  it  to  his  victim's 
temple.  And  but  for  an  accident,  we  would  all  have 
agreed  that  he  was  killed  by  a  lightning-stroke." 

Menard  lays  the  head  gently  back  upon  the  damp  hay 
and  asks,  shudderingly : 

"  How  did  you  discover  it,  Parks  ?" 

"  In  examining  the  sear,  you  may  remember,  I  brushed 
the  hair  away  from  the  temple.  As  I  ran  my  fingers 
through  it,  I  touched — that." 

They  look  from  one  to  the  other  silently  for  a  moment, 
and  then  Joe  Blakesly  says : 

"  Has  he  been  robbed  ?" 

"  Let  us  see  ;"  Menard  says,  "he  wore  a  money-belt,  I 
know.  Look  for  it,  Parks." 

Parks  examines  the  body,  and  shakes  his  head. 

"It's  gone;  has  been  cut  away.  The  belt  was  worn 
next  the  flesh ;  the  print  of  it  is  here  plainly  visible. 
The  belt  has  been  taken,  and  the  clothing  replaced  !" 

"  What  coolness  !  what  cunning !  Shall  we  ever  run 
the  fellow  down,  Parks  ?" 

"  Yes!  Boys,  you  know  why  I  am  leaving  the  moun- 
tains. I  am  going  home  to  England,  to  be  near  my 


"  Hold  the  lantern  closer,  Joe.     Look  both  of  you ;   do  you  see 
that?"— page  19. 


DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

father  who  must  die  soon.  I  am  not  a  poor  man;  I  shall 
some  day  be  richer  still.  If  we  fail  to  find  this  murderer, 
I  shall  put  the  matter  in  the  hands  of  the  detectives, 
and  I  will  never  give  it  up.  Arthur  Pearson  met  his 
death  while  traveling  for  safety  with  a  party  which  calls 
me  its  leader,  and  J  will  be  his  avenger !  It  may  be  in 
one  year,  or  two,  or  twenty;  it  may  take  a  fortune,  and 
a  lifetime ;  but  Arthur  Pearson  shall  be  avenged  /" 


CHAPTER  I. 

"STARS  OF  THE  FORCE." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Policeman  Xo.  46,  with  an  air  of 
condescending  courtesy,  "this  is1  the  office." 

It  is  characteristic  of  the  metropolitan  policeman  ;  he  is 
not   a    man    to   occupy    middle    ground.     If  he    is  not 
gruffly  discourteous,  he  is  pretty  certain  to  be  found    p? 
ronizingly  polite. 

Number  46  had  just  breakfasted  heartily,  and  had  swal- 
lowed a  large  schooner  of  beer  at  the  expense  of  the  bar 
keeper,  so  he  beamed  benignly  upon  the  tall,  brown- 
faced,  grey-bearded  stranger  who  had  just  asked,  "  Is 
this  the  office  of  the  City  Detective  Agency  ?" 

"  This  is  the  office,  sir ;  up  two  flights  and  turn  to 
your  left." 

The  stranger  shifted  his  position  slightly,  glanced  up 


"Is  this  the  office  of  the  City  Detective  Agency?" — page  22. 

23 


24  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

and  down  the  street,  drew  a  step  nearer  the  policeman, 
and  asked  : 

"  Is  it  a  large  force?" 

"Well,  I  should  say!" 

"  I  suppose  you  know  some  of  them  pretty  well?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;   I  know  some  of  the  best  men  of  the  lot." 

The  stranger  jingled  some  loose  coin  in  his  pocket,  and 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  interest  in  the  detective  force. 

"  Officer,  where  does  a  man  go  to  get  a  good  brandy 
cocktail  ?" 

Policemen  are  not  over  bashful,  and  No.  46  smiled 
anew  as  he  replied  . 

"  Just  wait  a  few  minutes,  and  I'll  show  you.  I  must 
stop  that  con — " 

The  last  syllable  was  lost  to  the  stranger  as  46  dashed 
off  to  wave  his  club  before  the  eyes  of  an  express-man, 
who  was  occupy  ing  too  much  space  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
street.  In  a  moment  he  was  back  again,  and,  as  he  ap- 
proached, the  stranger  said  : 

"  I'm  a  new-comer  in  the  city,  and  want  to  see  things. 
I  take  a  sort  of  interest  in  the  doings  of  the  police,  and 
in  detectives  especially.  I'd  like  to  have  you  point  me 
out  some  of  these  chaps,  officer.  Oh,  about  that  brandy 
cock-tail;  you'll  join  me,  I  hope?" 

No.  46  consulted  his  watch. 

"  I'll  join  you,  sir.  Yes  sir;  in  ten  minutes,  if  you'll 
wait.  There's  a  capital  place  right  here  handy.  And 
if  you  want  to  see  detectives,  just  you  stand  here  with  me 
a  while.  Yernet  and  Stanhope  went  down  to  breakfast 
half  an  hour  ago." 
•"Vernet  and  Stanhope?" 


"STARS  OF  THE  FORCE."  25 

"The  Stars  of  the  force,  sir;  a  perfect  matched 
team.  Splendid  fellows,  too.  They  always  spend  their 
mornings  at  the  office,  when  not  '  on  the  lay.'  They've 
been  back  in  the  city  four  or  five  days ;  hard  workers, 
those  boys." 

"  Young  men,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  Well,  yes,  they're  young,  but  you  can't  fool  them 
much.  A  little  under  thirty,  I  should  call  Vernet; 
Stanhope  is  the  younger  of  the  two." 

"  Americans  ?" 

"  Stanhope  is,  an  out-and-outer.  Vernet's  got  some 
French  in  him." 

"  Um,  yes ;  well,  I'd  like  to  take  a  look  at  them,  after 
we  refresh  ourselves." 

"  They  won't  be  back  for  a  good  half  hour ;  there's  no 
fear  of  missing  them." 

Half  an  hour,  and  a  brandy  cock-tail,  makes  some  men 
firm  friends.  When  that  period  of  time  had  elapsed, 
No.  46,  more  affable  than  ever,  and  the  tall  stranger, 
looking  quite  at  his  ease,  stood  again  near  the  entrance 
to  the  office  of  the  City  Detective  Agency. 

Two  men  were  coming  down  the  street,  walking  and 
talking  with  the  air  of  men  on  good  terms  with  them- 
selves and  each  other. 

Both  were  young,  well  dressed,  well-looking ;  but  a 
more  marked  contrast  never  was  seen. 

One,  the  taller  of  the  two,  was  dark  and  decidedly 
handsome,  with  black  waving  hair,  dusky  eyes,  that  were 
by  turns  solemn,  tender,  severe,  and  pathetic ;  "  faultily  fault- 
less" features,  that  wore  an  habitual  look  of  gravity  and 
meditation ;  an  erect,  graceful  carriage,  and  a  demeanor 


26  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

dignified  and  somewhat  reserved.  Slow  of  speech  and 
punctillious  in  the  use  of  words,he  was  a  man  of  tact  and 
discretion;  a  man  fitted  to  lead,  and  capable  of  ruling 
in  stormy  times.  At  first  sight,  people  pronounced  him 
"a  handsome  fellow;"  after  long  acquaintance,  they 
named  him  "  a  perfect  gentleman." 

His  companion  was  not  quite  so  tall,  of  medium  height, 
in  fact,  but  muscular  and  well  built.  He  walked  with  a 
springy,  careless  stride,  carrying  his  head  erect,  and 
keeping  his  observant,  twinkling,  laughing  brown  eyes 
constantly  employed  noting  everything  around  and  about 
him,  but  noting  all  with  an  expression  of  careless  un- 
concern that  seemed  to  say,  "  all  this  is  nothing  to  me, 
why  should  it  be?"  His  hair,  brown,  soft,  and  silky, 
wras  cropped  close  to  his  head,  displaying  thus  a  well  de- 
veloped crown,  and  brow  broad,  high  and  full.  The  no?e 
was  too  prominent  for  beauty,  but  the  mouth  and  chin 
were  magnificent  features,  of  which  a  physiognomist 
would  say:  Here  are  courage  and  tenderness,  firmness 
and  loyalty.  He  was  easy  of  manner — "  off-hand," 
would  better  express  it ;  careless,  and  sometimes  brusque 
in  speech.  At  first  sight  one  would  call  him  decidedly 
plain  ;  after  a  time  spent  in  his  society  you  voted  him  "a 
good  looking  fellow,"  and  "a  queer  fish."  And  those 
who  had  thoroughly  tested  the  quality  of  his  friendship, 
vowed  him  a  man  to  trust  and  to  "  tie  to." 

"  Here  they   come,"   whispered    Xo.    46 ;  "those   two 
fellows  in  grey." 

"  Which  is  which  ?" 

"  To  be  sure.     The  taller  is  Van  Vernet ;  the   other 
Dick  Stanhope." 


"Here  they  come,"  whispered  No.  46;  "those  two  fellows  in  grey." 
page  26. 


28  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

As  they  approached,  Van  Vernet  touched  his  hat  with 
a  glance  of  courteous  recognition.  But  Richard  Stanhope 
merely  nodded,  with  a  careless,  "  how  are  you,  Charlie?" 
And  neither  noted  the  eager,  smuinizing  glance  bent  upon 
them,  as  they  passed  the  grey-bearded  stranger  and  ran 
lightly  up  the  stairs.  "You're  wanted  in  the  Chiei's  office, 
Mr.  Vernet,"  said  the  office  boy  as  they  entered;  "And 
you  too,  I  think,  Mr.  Stanhope." 

"  Not  both  at  once,  stupid  ?" 

"  Urn,  ah  ;  of  course  not.     Now  look  here,  Mr.  Dick — " 

And  Stanhope  and  the  office  boy  promptly  fell  into 
pugilistic  attitudes,  the  former  saying,  with  a  gay  laugh  : 

"  You  first,  Van,  if  the  old  man  won't  let  us  '  hunt 
in  couples.' ' 

With  the  shadow  of  a  smile  upon  his  face,  Van  Vernet 
turned  his  back  upon  the  two  belligerents  and  entered  the 
inner  office. 

"  Ah,  Vernet,  good  morning,"  said  his  affable  chieftain. 
"  Are  you  ready  for  a  bit  of  business  ?" 

"Certainly,  sir." 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  be  anything  very  deep,  but  the 
y-mng  fellow  insisted  upon  having  one  of  my  best  men ; 
one  who  could  be  courteous,  discreet,  and  a  gentleman." 

Van  Vernet,  who  had  remained  standing,  hat  in  hand, 
before  his  chief,  bowed  deferentially,  and  continued  silent. 

"  There  are  no  instructions,"  continued  the  Chief.  "  You 
are  to  go  to  this  address — it's  a  very  aristocratic  locality — 
and  act  under  the  gentleman's  orders.  He  wants  to  deal 
with  you  direct;  the  case  is  more  delicate  than  difficult,  I 
fancy.  I  am  only  interested  in  the  success  or  failure  of 
your  work." 


"STARS  OF  THE  FORCE."  29 

Taking  the  card  from  his  outstretched  hand,  Vernet 

read  the  address. 

"A.  WARBTJRTON. 

No.  31  B Place." 

"  When  shall  I  wait  upon  Mr.  Warburton  ?" 

"At  once.  Your  entire  time  is  at  his  disposal  until 
the  case  is  finished ;  then  report  to  me." 

Vernet  bowed  again,  turned  to  go,  hesitated,  turned 
back,  and  said: 

"And  the  Raid?" 

"Oh,  that — I  shall  give  Stanhope  charge  of  that  affair. 
Of  course  he  would  like  your  assistance,  but  he  knows 
the  ground,  and  I  think  will  make  the  haul.  However, 
if  you  are  not  occupied  to-morrow  night,  you  might  join 
them  here." 

"  Thank  you.  I  will  do  so  if  possible,"  turning  again 
to  go. 

"  Send  Stanhope  in,  Vernet.  I  must  settle  this  business 
about  the  Raid." 

Opening  the  door  softly,  and  closing  it  gently  after  him, 
Vernet  approached  his  comrade,  and  laid  a  light  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

"  Richard,  you  are  wanted." 

"  All  right ;  are  you  off,  Van  ?" 

"Yes;"  putting  his  hat  upon  his  head. 

"On  a  lay?" 

"Yes." 

"  Wish  you  good  luck,  old  man  ;  tra  la." 

And  Dick  Stanhope  bounced  into  the  presence  of  his 
Chief  with  considerable  noise  and  scant  ceremony. 

Number  46,  who,   with  the  stranger  beside  him,  was 


30  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

slowly  pacing  his  beat,  lifted  his  eyes  as  Vernet  emerged 
from  the  stairway. 

"There  comes  Vernet,  and  alone.  I'll  bet  something 
he's  off  on  a  case,"  he  said. 

"  Looks  like  it." 

"  He  looks  more  serious  than  usual ;  wonder  if  he's  got 
to  work  it  without  Stanhope." 

"Do  they  always  pull  together?" 

"  Not  always  ;  but  they've  done  their  biggest  work  to- 
gether. "When  there's  a  very  knotty  case,  it's  given  t» 
Vernet  and  Stanhope  ;  and  they  seldom  fail." 

"  Which  acts  as  leader  and  is  the  best  man  of  the  two  ?" 

"Well,  sir,  that's  a  conundrum  that  no  man  can  guess, 
not  even  the  Chief.  And  I  don't  believe  any  body  ever 
will  know,  unless  they  fall  out,  and  set  up  an  opposition 
to  each  other.  As  for  who  leads,  they  both  pull  together; 
there's  no  leader.  I  tell  you  what  I  don't  want  to  see 
two  such  splendid  fellows  fall  out;  they've  worked  in  double 
harness  a  good  while.  But  if  the  Chief  up  there  wants 
to  see  what  detectives  can  do,  let  him  put  those  two  fel- 
lows on  opposite  sides  of  a  case  ;  then  he'd  see  a  war  of 
wits  that  would  beat  horse-racing."" 

"  Um !"  said  the  stranger,  consulting  an  English  repeater, 
"  it's  time  for  me  to  move  on.  Is  this  your  regular  beat, 
my  friend  ?  Ah  !  then  we  may  meet  again.  Good  morn- 
ing, sir." 

"That's  a  queer  jockey,"  muttered  No.  46.  "When  he 
first  came  up,  I  made  sure  he  was  looking  for  the  Agency — 
looking  just  for  curiosity,  I  reckon." 

And  the  stranger,  as  he  strolled  down  the  street,  com- 
muned thus  with  himself; 


ODDLY  EMPLOYED.  31 

"So  these  two  star  detectives  have  never  been  rivals  yet. 
The  Chief  has  never  been  anxious  to  see  what  detectives 
can  do,  I  suppose.  This  looks  like  my  opportunity.  Messrs. 
Vernet  and  Stanhope,  you  shall  have  a  chance  to  try  your 
skill  against  each  othei',  and  upon  a  desperate  case  :  and 
the  wit  that  wins  need  never  work  another." 


CHAPTER  TI. 

ODDLY  EMPLOYED. 

While  the  stranger  was  thus  communing  with  himself, 
and  while  Van  Vernet  was  striding  toward  that  fashionable 
quarter  of  the  city  which  contained  the  splendid  Warbur- 
ton  mansion,  Richard  'Stanhope,  perched  upon  one  corner 
of  a  baize  covered  table,  his  hands  clasped  about  one  knee, 
his  hat  pushed  far  back  upon  his  head,  his  whole  air  that 
of  a  man  in  the  presence  of  a  familiar  spirit,  and  perfectly 
at  his  ease,  was  saying  to  his  Chief: 

"  So  you  M*ant  me  to  put  this  business  through  alone  ? 
I  don't  half  like  it." 

"  You  are  equal  to  it,  Dick." 

"I  know  that,"  with  a  proud  curve  of  the  firm  lips,  "but 
I'm  sure  Van  expected  to  be  in  this  thing,  and — " 

"  Vernet  has  another  case  in  hand.  I  have  given  him  all 
his  time  until  itis  finished,  with  the  privilege  of  joining  you 
here  and  assisting  in  the  Raid  to-morrow  night,  if  he  can 


32  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

do  so  without  interfering  with  his  other  duties.  You  seem 
to  fear  to  offend  Vernet,  Dick?" 

"I  fear  no  one,  sir.  But  Van  and  I  have  pulled  well  to- 
gether, and  divided  the  honors  equally.  This  Raid,  if  it  suc- 
ceeds, will  be  a  big  thing  for  the  man,  or  men,  engineering 
it.  I  know  that  Van  has  counted  upon  at  least  a  share  of  the 
glory.  I  hate  to  see  him  lose  the  chance  for  it." 

"  You  are  a  generous  friend,  Dick,  and  Van  may  rejoice 
that  you  are  his  friend  instead  of  his  rival.  Now,  leaving 
friendship  to  take  care  of  itself,  do  you  feel  that  the  success 
of  the  Raid  depends  upon  Veruet's  assistance  ?" 

"Perdition!  No." 

"  You  know  the  ground?" 

"  Every  inch  of  it !" 

"And  Van  does  not," 

"  One  pilot  is  enough." 

"  You  know  the  people  ?" 

"Well,  rather!" 

"  Do  you  doubt  the  success  of  the"  undertaking  ?" 

"  No,  sir.     I  see  only  one  chance  for  failure." 

"And  that?" 

"I  have  made  this  Raid  a  study.  If  anything  occurs 
to  prevent  my  leading  the  expedition,  and  you  put  an- 
other man  -at  the  head,  it  will  fail." 

"Even  if  it  be  Vernet?" 

"Even  Vernet.  Satan  himself  would  fail  in  those 
alleys,  unless  he  knew  the  ground." 

"  And  yet  you  would  share  your  honors  with  Vernet 
for  friendship's  sake  ?  Dick,  you  are  a  queer  fish  !  But 
why  do  you  suggest  a  possibility  of  your  absence?" 

"Because,"  sliding  off  the  table  and  pulling  his  hat  low 


ODDLY  EMPLOYED.  33 

over  his  eyes,  "The  Raid  is  thirty-six  hours  distant,  and 
one  never  knows  what  may  happen  in  thirty-six  hours. 
Is  there  any  thing  else,  sir?" 

"Yes;  I've  a  dainty  bit  of  mystery  for  you.  No 
blind  alleys  and  thieves  dens  in  this ;  it's  for  to-morrow 
evening,  too." 

Stanhope  resumed  his  former  position  upon  the  corner 
of  the  table,  pushed  back  his  hat,  and  turned  an  attentive 
face  to  his  Chief. 

"Your  Raid  will  not  move  until  a  little  after  mid- 
night ;  this  other  business  is  for  ten  o'clock.  You  can  be 
at  liberty  by  eleven.  You  know  Follingsbee,  the  lawyer?" 

"  By  reputation;  yes.     Is  he  in  the  mystery?" 

"He's  negotiating  for  a  client;  a  lady." 

"A  lady!"  with  a  stare  of  dismay.  "Why  didn't  you 
turn  her  over  to  Van ;  you  know  he  is  just  the  man  to 
deal  with  women,  and  I — " 

"You  are  afraid  of  a  petticoat!  I  know;  and  I  might 
have  chosen  Vernet,  if  the  choice  had  been  given  me. 
But  the  lawyer  asked  for  you" 

Stanhope  groaned  dismally. 

"  Besides,  it's  best  for  you ;  you  are  better  than  Vernet 
at  a  feminine  make  up." 

"  A  feminine  make  up  !" 

"  Yes.  Here  is  the  1  isiness :  Mr.  Follingsbee  desires 
your  services  for  a  lady  client ;  he  took  care  to  impress 
upon  me  that  she  was  a  lady  in  every  sense  of  the  word. 
This  lady  had  desired  the  services  of  a  detective,  and 
he  had  recommended  you." 

"Why  I?" 

"  Never  mind  why ;  you  are  sufEciently  vain  at  present, 

a 


34  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

You  have  nothing  on  hand  after  the  Raid,  so  I  promised 
you  to  Follingsbee ;  he  is  an  old  friend  of  mine.  To- 
morrow evening,  at  ten  o'clock,  you  are  to  drive  to  Mr. 
Follingsbee's  residence  in  masquerade  costume." 

"Good  Lord!" 

"  In  a  feminine  disguise  of  some  sort.  Mr.  Follingsbee, 
also  in  costume,  will  join  you,  and  together  you  will  attend 
an  up-town  masquerade,  you  personating  Mrs.  Folliugsbee, 
who  will  remain  at  home." 

''Phew!  I'm  getting  interested." 

"At  the  masquerade  you  will  meet  your  client,  who  will 
be  introduced  by  Follingsbee.  Now  about  your  disguise  : 
he  wants  to  know  your  costume  beforehand,  in  order  to 
avoid  any  mistakes." 

"Let  me  think,"  said  Stanhope,  musingly.  "What's 
Mrs.  Follingsbee's  style?" 

"A  little  above  the  medium.  Follingsbee  thinks,  that, 
with  considerable  drapery,  you  can  make  up  to  look  suffi- 
ciently like  her." 

"  Considerable  drapery ;  then  I  have  it.  Last  season, 
when  Van  and  I  were  abroad,  we  attended  a  masquerade 
in  Vienna,  and  I  wore  the  costume  of  the  Goddess  of  Lib- 
erty, in  order  to  furnish  a  partner  for  Van.  In  hiring 
the  costume,  I,  of  course,  deposited  the  price  of  it,  and  the 
next  day  we  left  the  city  so  hurriedly  that  I  had  no  op- 
portunity to  return  it,  so  I  brought  it  home  with  me. 
It's  a  bang-up  dress,  and  no  one  has  seen  it  on  this  side 
of  the  water,  except  Van.  How  will  it  do  ?" 

"  Capitally ;  then  I  will  tell  Follingsbee  to  look  for 
the  Goddess  of  Liberty." 

"  All  right,  sir.  You  are  sure  I  won't  be  detained 
later  than  eleven  ?"• 


"Yes;  I've  a  dainty  bit  of  mystery  for  you.  No  blind  alleys  and  thieves' 
dens  in  this" — page  33. 


36  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  You  have  only  to  meet  the  lady,  receive  her  instruc- 
tions, and  come  away." 

"I  hope  I  shall  live  through  the  ordeal,"  rising  once 
more  and  shaking  himself  like  a  water-spaniel,  "  but  I'd 
rather  face  all  the  hosts  of  Rag  Alley." 

And  Richard  Stanhope  left  the  Agency  to  "  overhaul" 
the  innocent  masquerade  costume  that  held,  in  its  white  and 
crimson  folds,  the  fate  of  its  owner. 

Leaving  him  thus  employed,  let  us  follow  the  footsteps 
of  Van  Vernet,  and  enter  with  him  the  stately  portals 
of  the  home  of  the  Warburtons. 

Crossing  a  hall  that  is  a  marvel  of  antique  richness, 
with  its  walls  of  russet,  old  gold,  and  Venetian  red  tints ; 
its  big  claw-footed  tables;  its  massive,  open-faced  clock, 
with  huge  weights  a-swing  below;  its  statuettes  and  its 
bass-reliefs,  we  pass  under  a  rich  portierie,  and  hear  the 
liveried  footman  say,  evidently  having  been  instructed: 

"This  is  Mr.  Warburton's  study,  sir;  I  will  take  up 
your  name." 

Van  Vernet  gazes  about  him,  marking  the  gorgeous 
richness  of  the  room.  A  study !  There  are  massive 
book-cases  filled  with  choicest  lore;  cabinets  containing  all 
that  is  curious,  antique,  rare,  beautiful,  and  costly;  there 
are  plaques  and  bronzes ;  there  is  a  mantle  laden  with 
costly  bric-a-brac;  a  grand  old-fashioned  fire-place  and 
fender ;  there  are  divans  and  easy  chairs ;  rich  draperies 
on  wall  and  at  windows,  and  all  in  the  rarest  tints  of 

'  X 

olive,  crimson,  and  bronze. 

Van  Vernet  looks  about  him  and  says  to  himself: 

"  This  is  a  room  after  my  own  heart.     Mr.  Warburton, 


ODDLY  EMPLOYED.  37 

of  Warburton  Place,  must  be  a  sybarite,  and  should  be 
a  happy  man.     Ah,  he  is  coming." 

But  it  is  not  Mr.  Warburton  who  enters.  It  is  a  colored 
valet,  sleek,  smiling,  obsequious,  who  bears  in  his  hand 
a  gilded  salver,  with  a  letter  upon  it,  and  upon  his  arm  a 
parcel  wrapped  in  black  silk. 

"  You  are  Mr.  Vernet?"  queries  this  personage,  as 
if  in  doubt. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  this  letter  is  for  you." 

And  the  valet  bows  low,  and  extends  the  salver,  adding 
softly : 

"I  am  Mr.  Warburton's  body  servant." 
Looking  somewhat  surprised,  as  well  as  annoyed,  Van 
Vernet  takes  up  the  letter,  breaks  the  seal  and  reads : 

SIR: 

My  business  with  you  is  of  so  delicate  a  nature  that  it  is  best, 
for  all  concerned,  to  keep  our  identity  a  secret,  for  a  time  at  least. 
Your  investigation  involves  the  fair  fame  of  a  lady  and  the  honor  of 
a  stainless  name. 

Come  to  this  house  to-morrow  night,  in  the  costume  which  I  shall 
send  for  your  use.  The  enclosed  card  will  admit  you.  My  valet 
will  show  you  the  domino  by  which  you  will  recognize  me.  This 
will  enable  me  to  instruct  you  fully,  and  to  point  out  to  you  the 
persons  in  whom  you  are  to  take  an  interest.  This  letter  you  will 
please  destroy  in  the  presence  of  my  valet.  A.  "W. 

After  reading  this  strange  note,  Van  Vernet  stands  so 
long,  silently  pondering,  that  the  servant  makes  a  restless 
movement.  Then  the  detective  says,  with  a  touch  of 
imperiousness. 

"  Give  me  a  match." 

It  is  proffered  him  in  silence,  and  in  silence  he  turns  to 


38  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

the  grate,  applies  the  match  to  the  letter,  and  lets  it  fall 
from  his  fingers  to  the  fire-place,  where  it  lies  a  charred 
fragment  that  crumbles  to  ashes  at  a  touch. 

The  dark  servant  watches  the  proceeding  in  grave  silence 
until  Vernet  turns  to  him,  saying: 

"  Xow,  the  domino." 

Then  he  rapidly  takes  frqm  the  sable  wrapper  a  domino 
of  black  and  scarlet,  and  exhibits  it  to  the  detective,  who 
examines  it  critically  for  a  moment  and  then  says  brusquely: 

"That  will  do;  tell  your  master  that  I  will  follow  his  in- 
structions— to  the  letter." 

As  the  stately  door  swings  shut  after  his  exit,  Van  Ver- 
net turns  and  glances  up  at  the  name  upon  the  door-plate, 
and,  as  he  sets  his  foot  upon  the  pavement,  he  mutters: 

"A.  Warburton  is  my  employer;  A.  Warburton  is  the 
name  upon  the  door :  I  see !  My  services  are  wanted  by  the 
muster  of  this  mansion :  he  asks  to  deal  with  a  gentleman, 
and — leaves  him  to  negotiate  with  a  colored  servant! 
There's  a  lady  in  the  case,  and  'an  honorable  name  at 
stake;'  Ah!  Mr.  A.  Warburton,  the  day  may  come  when 
you  will  wear  no  domino  in  my  presence;  when  you  will 
send  no  servant  to  negotiate  with  Aran  Vernet!" 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  EFFECT  OF  AX  ADVERTISEMENT. 

A  rickety  two-story  frame   building,  in   one  of  the  worst 
quarters  of  the  city. 

It  Is  black  with  age,  and  guiltless  of  paint,  but  a  care- 


"He  applies  the  match  to  the  letter,  and  lets  it  fall  from  his  fingers  to 
the  fire-place.— page  38.  ~ 


40  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

ful  observer  would  note  that  the  door  is  newer  than  the 
dwelling,  and  that  it  is  remarkably  solid,  considering  the 
tumble-down  aspect  of  the  structure  it  guards.  The 
windows  of  the  lower  story  are  also  new  and  substantial, 
such  of  them  as  serve  for  windows ;  but  one  would  note  that 
the  two  immediately  facing  the  street  are  boarded  up,  and  so 
tightly  that  not  one  ray  of  light  can  penetrate  from  without, 
nor  shine  from  within. 

The  upper  portion  of  the  dwelling,  however,  has  nothing 
of  newness  about  it.  The  windows  are  almost  without  glass, 
but  they  bristle  with  rags  and  straw,  while  the  dilapida- 
ted appearance  of  the  roof  indicates  that  this  floor  is  given  over 
to  the  rats  and  the  rain. 

Entering  at  the  stout  front  door,  we  find  a  large  room,  bare 
and  comfortless.  There  is  a  small  stove,  the  most  battered 
and  rusty  of  its  kind;  two  rickety  chairs,  and  a  high  wooden 
stool ;  a  shelf  that  supports  a  tin  cup,  a  black  bottle,  and  a 
tallow  candle;  a  sturdy  legged  deal  table,  and  a  scrap  of  rag 
c-.irpet,  carefully  outspread  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

An  open  door,  in  one  corner,  discloses  the  way  to  the  rat- 
luumted  second  floor.  There  are  some  dirty  bundles  and  a 
pile  of  rags  just  behind  the  door;  some  pieces  of  rusty  old 
iron  are  lying  near  a  rear  entrance,  and  a  dismal-looking  old 
man  is  seated  on  a  pallet  in  one  corner. 

This  is  what  would  be  noted  by  the  casual  observer,  and 
i!.'s  is  all.  But  the  old  man  and  his  dwelling  are  worthy  of 
rinscr  inspection. 

He  is  small  and  lean,  with  narrow,  stooping  shoulders;  a 
sallow,  pinched  face,  upon  which  rests,  by  turns,  a  fawning 
leer,  which  is  intended,  doubtless,  for  the  blandest  of  smiles, 
a  look  of  craftiness  and  greed,  a  scowl,  or  a  sneer.  His  hair, 


EFFECT  OF  AN  ADVERTISEMENT.  41 

which  has  been  in  past  years  of  a  decided  carrot  color,  is  now 
plentifully  streaked  with  gray,  and  evidently  there  is  little 
affinity  between  the  stubby  locks  and  a  comb.  He  is  dirty, 
ragged,  unshaven ;  and  his  age  may  be  any  where  between 
fifty  and  seventy. 

At  the  sound  of  a  knock  upon  the  outer  door,  he  sits  erect 
upon  his  pallet,  a  look  of  wild  terror  in  his  face :  then,  re- 
covering himself,  he  rises  slowly  and  creeps  softly  toward  the 
door.  Wearing  now  his  look  of  cunning,  he  removes  from 
a  side  panel  a  small  pin,  that  is  nicely  fitted  and  comes  out 
noiselessly,  and  peeps  through  the  aperture  thus  made. 

Then,  with  an  exclamation  of  annoyance,  he  replaces  the 
pin  and  hurriedly  opens  the  door. 

The  woman  who  enters  is  a  fitting  mate  for  him,  save  that  in 
height  and  breadth,  she  is  his  superior;  old  and  ugly,  un- 
kempt and  dirty,  with  a  face  expressive  of  quite  as  much  of 
cunning  and  greed,  and  more  of  boldness  and  resolution, 
than  his  possesses. 

"  It's  you,  is  it?"  says  the  man,  testily.  "  What  has 
brought  you  back  ?  and  empty-handed  I'll  be  bound." 

The  old  woman  crossed  the  floor,  seated  herself  in  the  most 
reliable  chair,  and  turning  her  face  toward  her  companion 
said,  sharply: 

"  You're  an  old  fool !" 

Not  at  all  discomposed  by  this  familiar  announcement,  the 
man  closed  and  barred  the  door,  and  then  approached  the 
woman,  who  was  taking  from  her  pocket  a  crumpled  newspaper. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?" 

"  You  wait,"  significantly,  "  and  don't  tell  me  that  I  come 
empty-handed." 

"Ah!  you  don't  mean — " 


42  DANGEROUS  GROTTND. 

Again  the  look  of  terror  crossed  his  face,  and  he  left  the 
sentence  unfinished. 

"  Old  man,  you  are  a  fool !  Now,  listen :  Nance  and  I 
had  got  our  bags  nearly  filled,  when  I  found  this,"  striking  the 
paper  with  her  fore-finger.  "  It  blew  right  under  my  feet, 
around  a  corner.  It's  the  morning  paper." 

"  Well,  well !" 

"  Oh,  you'll  hear  it  soon  enough.  It's  the  morning  paper, 
and  you  know  /always  read  the  papers,  when  I  can  find  'em, 
although,  since  you  lost  the  few  brains  you  was  born  with, 
you  never  look  at  one," 

"Umph!" 

"  Well,  I  looked  at  this  paper,  and  see  what  I  found !" 

She  held  the  paper  toward  him,  and  pointed  to  a  paragraph 
among  the  advertisements. 

TrrANTED-    INFORMATION  OF  ANY  SORT  CONCERN- 
ing  one  Arthur  Pearson,  who  left  the  mining  country 
with  a  child  in  Ins  charge,  twenty  years  ago.    Information 
concerning  said  child,  Lea  Ainsworth,  or  any  of  her  relatives. 
'  Compensation  for  any  trouble  or  time.    Address, 
O.  E.  HEARS,  Atty, 

Melbourne,  Australia. 

The  paper  fluttered  from  the  man's  nerveless  fingers,  but  the 
woman  caught  it  as  it  fell. 

"Oh,  Lord !"  he  gasped,  the  drops  of  perspiration  standing 
out  upon  his  brow,  "oh,  Lord  !  it  has  come  at  last." 

"  What  has  come,  you  old  fool !" 

"Everything;  ruin!  ruin!" 

"We're  a  pretty  looking  pair  to  talk  of  ruin"  giving  a  con- 
temptuous glance  at  her  surroundings.  "Stop  looking  so  like 
a  scared  idiot,  and  listen  to  me." 

"Oh,  I'm  listening!"  sinking  down  upon  the  pallet  in  a 
dismal  huddle;  "go  on." 


'Oh,  Lord!"  he  gasped;  "oh,  Lord,  it  has  come  at  last!" — page  43. 

43 


44  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

The   woman    crossed   over  and   sat    down    beside    him. 

"Now,  look  here;  suppose  the  worst  comes,  how  far  away 
is  it?  How  long  will  it  take  to  get  a  letter  to  Australia,  and 
an  answer  or  a  journey  back?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know." 

"  "Well,  it'll  take  all  the  time  we  want.  But  who  is  there 
to  answer  that  advertisement  ?" 

"  Oh,  dear !" 

"  You  miserable  coward !  She  wouldn't  know  what  it 
meant  if  she  saw  it." 

"No." 

"Arthur  Pearson — " 

"Oh,  don't!" 

"  Arthur  Pearson  has  not  been  heard  of  in  twenty  years." 

The  old  man  shuddered,  and  drew  a  long  sighing  breath. 

"  Walter  Parks,  after  all  his  big  talk,  never  came  back 
from  England,"  she  hurried  on.  "Menard  is  dead;  and 
Joe  Blakesley  is  in  California.  The  rest  are  dead,  or 
scattered  south  and  west.  There  are  none  of  the  train  to 
be  found  here,  except — except  the  Krutzers;  and  who  can 
identify  them  after  twenty  years?" 

"  I  shall  never  feel  safe  again." 

"  Yes,  you  will.  You  always  feel  safe  when  the  dollars 
jingle  in  your  pockets,  although  it's  precious  little  good  they 
bring  you." 

"  But  her  money  is  already  gone." 

"Her  husband  has  a  full  purse." 

"  But  how—" 

"Oh,  I  see  the  way  clear  enough.  It's  only  half  the 
work  of  the  other  job,  and  double  the  money." 

"The  money !  Ah!  how  do  you  think  to  get  it?" 


ENLISTED  AGAINST  EACH  OTHEE.  45 

"  Honestly,  this  time ;  honestly,  old  man.  It  shall  come 
to  us  as  a  reward  /" 

Drawing  nearer  still  to  her  hesitating  partner,  the  .woman 
began  to  whisper  rapidly,  gesticulating  fiercely  now  and  then, 
while  the  old  man  listened  in  amazement,  admiration,  doubt, 
and  fear;  asking  eager  questions,  and  feeling  his  way  cau- 
tiously toward  conviction. 

When  the  argument  was  ended,  he  said,  slowly  : 

"  I  shall  never  feel  safe  until  it's  over,  and  we  are  away 
from  this  place.  When  can  you  do — the  job  ?" 

"  To-morrow  night." 

"  To-morrow  night !" 

"  Yes ;  it's  the  very  time  of  times.  To-morrow  night  it 
shall  be." 

"  It's  a  big  risk !  We  will  have  to  bluff  the  detectives,  old 
woman." 

"A  fig  for  the  detectives!  They  will  have  a  cold  scent; 
besides — we  have  dodged  detectives  before." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ENLISTED   AGAINST   EACH   OTHER. 

It  is  early  in  the  evening  of  the  day  that  has  witnessed 
the  events  recorded  in  the  preceding  chapters,  and  the  Chief 
of  the  detectives  is  sitting  in  his  easiest  office  chair,  listening 
attentively  to  the  words  that  fall  from  the  lips  of  a  tall, 
bronzed,  gray-bearded  man  who  sits  opposite  him,  talking 
fast  and  earnestly. 


46  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

He  has  been  thus  talking,  and  the  Chief  thus  listening, 
for  more  than  an  hour,  and  the  story  is  just  reaching  its 
conclusion  when  the  stranger  says : 

"There,  sir,  you  have  the  entire  case,  so  far  as  I  know 
it.  What  I  ask  is  something  unusual,  but  what  I  ofter,  in 
compensation,  is  something  unusual  too." 

"A  queer  case,  I  should  say,"  returns  the  Chief,  half  to 
himself;  "and  a  difficult  one.  Twenty  years  ago  a  man  was 
murdered — killed  by  a  nail  driven  into  his  skull.  Detectives 
have  hunted  for  the  murderer,  singly,  in  twos  and  threes. 
English  experts  have  crossed  the  ocean  to  unravel  the 
mystery  and  it  remains  a  mystery  still.  And  now,  when 
the  secret  is  twenty  years  old,  and  the  assassin  dead  and 
buried,  perhaps, you  come  and  ask  me  for  my  two  best  men, — 
men  who  have  worked  together  as  brothers — and  ask  me  to 
set  their  skill  against  each  other,  in  a  struggle,  which,  if  it 
ends  as  you  desire,  will  mean  victory  and  fortune  for  the 
one,  defeat  and  loss  of  prestige  for  the  other." 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  loss  of  prestige.  A  man  may 
bow  to  a  superior  and  yet  retain  his  own  skill.  Plainly, 
I  have  come  to  you  as  an  honorable  man  should.  I  wi^h 
to  deal  with  these  men  through  you,  if  possible.  But  they  are 
free  agents.  What  you  refuse  to  do  for  me,  I  must  do 
for  myself;  and  I  tell  you  plainly,  that  if  money  can  purchase 
their  services,  I  will  have  Van  Vernet  and  Richard'  Stan- 
hope to  work  this  case." 

"  You  are  frank,  sir !  But  I  have  observed  that,  in  re- 
lating your  story,  you  have  been  careful  to  avoid  giving 
either  your  own  name  or  the  name  of  the  murdered  man." 

"As  I  shall  continue  to  do  until  I  state  the  case  to  the 
two  detectives,  after  they  have  enlisted  in  my  service." 

The  Chief  ponders  for  a  time  and  then  says ; 


ENLISTED  AGAINST  EACH  OTHEE.  47 

"Now,  hear  my  proposition:  you  are  justified  in  believ- 
ing that,  if  there  is  a  bottom  to  this  ancient  mystery,  Ver- 
net  and  Stanhope,  singly  or  together,  are  the  men  to  find 
it.  That  is  my  belief  also.  As  for  your  idea  of  putting 
them  on  their  mettle,  by  offering  so  magnificent  a  reward  to 
the  man  who  succeeds,  that  is  not  bad— for  you  and  the 
man  who  wins.  Vernet  and  Stanhope  have,  this  very  day, 
taken  in  hand  two  cases, — working  separately,  understand. 
If  you  will  wait  in  patience  until  these  cases  are  finished, 
you  shall  have  the  men  from  this  office, — if  they  will  accept 
the  case." 

"Put  my  proposition  before  the  two  men  at  once.  When 
I  know  that  I  shall  have  their  services,  I  can  wait  in  pa- 
tience until  their  duty  of  the  present  is  done." 

"Then,"  said  the  Chief  rising,  "the  question  can  soon  be 
settled;  Vernet  is  in  the  outer  office;  Stanhope  will  soon  be 
here.  You  will  find  the  evening  papers  upon  that  desk ; 
try  and  entertain  yourself  while  I  put  your  case  before 
Vernet." 

Ten  minutes  later,  Van  Vernet  was  standing  before  his 
Chief,  listening  with  bent  head,  compressed  lip,  and  glowing 
cheek,  to  the  story  of  the  man  who  was  murdered  twenty 
years  before,  and  to  the  splendid  proposal  of  the  tall 
stranger.  When  it  was  all  told,  and  the  Chief  paused  for 
a  reply,  the  young  detective  moved  a  pace  nearer  and  said 
with  decision : 

"Tell  him  that  I  accept  the  proposition.  A  man  can't 
afford  to  lose  so  splendid  a  chance  for  friendship's  sake. 
Besides,"  his  eyes  darkening  and  his  mouth  twitching  con- 
vulsively, "  it's  time,  for  Dick  and  I  to  find  out  who  is  the 
better  man  !" 


48  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Returning  to  the  inner  office,  the  Chief  of  the  force  found 
his  strange  patron  walking  fiercely  up  and  down  the  room, 
with  a  newspaper  grasped  firmly  in  his  hand,  and  on  his 
countenance  traces  of  agitation. 

"  Look !"  he  cried,  approaching  and  forcing  the  paper 
upon  the  astonished  Chief;  "see  what  a  moment  of  waiting 
has  brought  me !" 

And  he  pointed  to  a  paragraph  beginning : 

"IT TANTED.  INFORMATION  OF  ANY  SORT  CONCERN- 
*  *    ing  one  Arthur  Pearson,  etc.  etc. 

"An  advertisement,  I  see;"  said  the  Chief.  "But  I  fail 
to  understand  why  it  should  thus  excite  you." 

"A  moment  ago  it  was  my  intention  to  ketjp  the  identity 
of  the  murdered  man  a  secret.  This,"  indicating  the  paper 
by  a  quick  gesture,  "  changes  the  face  of  aifairs.  After 
twenty  years,  some  one  inquires  after  Arthur  Pearson — 

"  Then  Arthur  Pearson  is — " 

"  The  man  who  was  murdered  near  the  Marais  des 
Cygnes !" 

"  And  the  child  ?" 

"  I  never  knew  her  name  until  now.  Xo  doubt  it  is  the 
little  girl  that  was  in  Pearson's  care." 

"What  became  of  the  child?" 

"  I  never  knew." 

"  And  how  does  this  discovery  affect  your  movements  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you;  but,  first,  you  saw  Vernet?" 

"  Yes ;  and  he  accepts." 

"Good!  That  notice  was  inserted  either  by  some  friend 
of  Pearson's,  or  by  the  child's  father,  John  Aiusworth." 

"  What  do  you  know  of  him  ?" 

"Nothing;  I  never  met  him.    But,  as  soon  as  you  have 


ENLISTED  AGAINST  EACH  OTHER.  49 

seen  Stanhope,  and  I  am  sure  that  these  two  sharp  fellows 
are  prepared  to  hunt  down  poor  Pearson's  assassins,  I  will 
meet 'him,  if  the  notice  is  his,  for  I  am  going  to  Australia." 

"Ah!" 

"Yes;  I  can  do  no  good  here.  To-morrow  morning, 
business  will  take  me  out  of  the  city.  When  I  return,  in 
two  days,  let  me  have  Stanhope's  answer." 

When  Richard  Stanhope  appeared  at  the  office  that  night 
a  little  later  than  usual,  the  story  of  Arthur  Pearson  and 
his  mysterious  death  was  related  for  the  third  time  that 
day,  and  the  strange  and  munificent  offer  of  the  stranger, 
for  the  second  time  rehearsed  by  the  Chief. 

"AVhat  do  you  think  of  it,  my  boy?  Are  you  anxious 
to  try  for  a  fortune?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

It  was  said  as  coolly  as  if  he  were  declining  a  bad  cigar. 

"Consider,  Dick." 

"There  is  no  need.  Van  and  I  have  pulled  together 
too  long  to  let  a  mere  matter  of  money  come  between  us. 
He  would  never  accept  such  a  proposition." 

The  Chief  bit  his  lip  and  remained  silent. 

"  Or  if  he  did,"  went  on  Stanhope,  "  he  would  not  work 
against  me.  Tell  your  patron  that  with  Van  Vernet  I  will 
undertake  the  case.  He  may  make  Van  his  chief,  and  I 
will  gladly  assist.  Without  Van  as  my  rival,  I  will  work 
it  alone;  but  against  him,  as  his  rival  for  honors  and  lucre, 
never  /" 

The  Chief  slowly  arose,  and  resting  his  hands  upon  the 
shoulders  of  the  younger  man,  looked  in  his  face  with  fath- 
erly pride. 

"Dick,  you're  a  splendid  fellow,  and  a  shrewd  detec- 

4 


50  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

tive,"  he  said,  "but  you  have  a  weakness.  You  study 
strangers,  but  you  trust  your  friends  with  absolute  blind- 
ness. Van  is  ambitious." 

"So  am  I." 

"He  loves  money." 

"A  little  too  well,  I  admit." 

"  If  he  should  accept  this  offer?" 

"But  he  wont." 

"If  he  should ;"  persisted  the  Chief. 

"If  such  a  thing  were  possible, — if,  without  a  friendly 
consultation,  and  a  fair  and  square  send  off,  he  should  take 
up  the  cudgel  against  me,  then — " 

"Then,  Dick?" 

Richard  Stanhope's  eyes  flashed,  and  his  mouth  set  it- 
self in  firm  lines. 

"  Then"  he  said,  "  I  would  measure  my  strength  against 
his  as  a  detective ;  but  always  as  a  friend,  and  never  to  his 
injury !" 

"And,  Dick,  if,  in  the  thick  of  the  strife, Van  forgets  his 
friendship  for  you  and  becomes  your  enemy  ?" 

"  [Then,  as  I  am  only  human,  I  should  be  his  enemy  too. 
But  that  will  not  happen." 

"  I  hope  not ;  I  hope  not,  my  boy.  But — Van  Vernet 
has  already  accepted  the  stranger's  proposition.". 

Stanhope  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"  What !"  he  cried,  "  has  Van  agreed  to  work  against  me — 
without  a  word  to  me — and  so  soon  !" 

His  lips  trembled  now,  and  his  eyes  searched  those  of 
his  Chief  with  the  eager,  inquiring  look  of  a  grieved  child. 

"  It  is  as  I  say,  Stanhope." 

"  Then,"  and  he  threw  back  his  head   and  instantly   re- 


"  What,  has  Van  agreed  to  work  against  me — without  a  word  to  me — 
and  so  soon  1" — page  50. 

51 


52  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

sumed  his  usual  look  of  careless  indifference,  "tell  your 
patron,  whoever  he  may  be,  that  I  am  his  man,  for  one 
year,  or  for  twenty !" 


CHAPTER  V. 

"STANHOPE'S  FIRST  TRICK." 

Van  Vernet  and  Richard  Stanhope  had  been  brother 
detectives  during  the  entire  term  of  their  professional  career. 

Entering  the  Agency  when  mere  striplings,  they  had  at 
once  formed  a  friendship  that  had  been  strong  and  lasting. 
Their  very  differences  of  disposition  and  habits  made  them 
the  better  fellow-workmen,  and  the  role  most  difficult  for 
one  was  sure  to  be  found  the  easier  part  for  the  other  to 
play. 

They  had  been  a  strong  combination,  and  the  Chief  of 
the  detectives  wasted  sometime  in  pondering  the  question: 
what  would  be  the  result,  when  their  skill  and  courage 
stood  arrayed  against  each  other  ? 

Meantime,  Richard  Stanhope,  wasting  no  thought  upon 
the  matter,  hastened  from  the  presence  of  his  Chief  to  his 
own  quarters. 

"It's  my  last  night,"  he  muttered,  as  he  inserted  his  key 
in  the  lock,  "and  I'll  just  take  one  more  look  at  the 
slums.  I  don't  want  to  lose  one  Bird  from  that  flock." 

Half  an  hour  later,  there  -sallied  forth  from  the  door 
where  Stanhope  had  entered,  a  roughly-dressed,  swagger- 


"STANHOPE'S  FIRST  TRICK."  53 

ing,  villainous-looking  fellow,  who  bore  about  with  him 
the  strongly  defined  odors  of  tobacco  and  bad  whiskey. 

This  individual,  armed  with  a  black  liquor  flask,  two  re- 
volvers, a  blood-thirsty-looking  dirk,  a  pair  of  brass  knuck- 
les, and  a  quantity  of  plug  tobacco,  took  his  way  through  the 
streets,  avoiding  the  more  popular  and  respectable  thorough- 
fares, and  gradually  approaching  that  portion  of  the  city  almost 
entirely  given  over  to  the  worst  of  the  bad, — a  network  of 
short  streets  and  narrow  alleys,  as  intricate  as  the  maze,  and 
as  dangerous  to  the  unwary  as  an  African  jungle. 

But  the  man  who  now  entered  these  dismal  streets  walked 
with  the  manner  of  one  familiar  with  their  sights  and  sounds. 
Moving:  alono-  with  an  air  of  stolid  indifference  to  what  was 

o  O 

before  and  about  him,  he  arrived  at  a  rickety  building,  some- 
what larger  than  those  surrounding  it,  the  entrance  to  which 
was  reached  by  going  down,  instead  of  up,  a  flight  of  stone 
steps.  This  entrance  was  feebly  illuminated  by  a  lantern  hung 
against  the  doorway,  and  by  a  few  stray  gleams  of  light  that 
shone  out  from  the  rents  in  the  ragged  curtains. 

Pushing  open  the  door,  our  visitor  found  himself  in  a  large 
room  with  sanded  floor,  a  counter  or  bar,  and  five  or  six  tables, 
about  which  a  number  of  men  were  lounging, — some  at  cards, 
some  drinking,  and  some  conversing  in  the  queer  jargon  called 
thieves'  slang,  and  which  is  as  Greek  to  the  unenlightened. 

The  buzz  of  conversation  almost  ceased  as  the  door  opened, 
but  was  immediately  resumed  when  the  new  comer  came  for- 
ward toward  the  light. 

"Is  that  you,  Cull?"  called  the  man  behind  the  bar. 
'•'You've  been  keepin'  scarce  of  late." 

The  man  addressed  as  "Cull"  laughed  discordantly. 

"I've  been  visitin'  in  the  country,"  he  returned,  with  a 


54  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

knowing  wink.  "It's  good  for  my  health  this  time  o*  year. 
How's  business  ?  You've  got  the  hull  deck  on  hand,  I  should 
say." 

"You  better  say!  Things  is  boomin';  nearly  all  of  the  old 
uns  are  in." 

""Well,  spread  out  the  drinks,  Pap,  I'm  tolerably  flush. 
Boys,  come  up,  and  if  I  don't  know  any  of  ye  we'll  be  inter- 
el  uced." 

Almost  instantly  a  dozen  men  were  flocking  about  the  bar, 
some  eager  to  grasp  the  hand  of  the  liberal  last  arrival,  and 
others  paying  their  undivided  attention  to  the  bar  keeper's 
cheerful  command: 

"  Nominate  yer  dose,  gentlemen." 

While  the  party,  glasses  in  hand,  were  putting  themselves 
en  rapport,  the  door  again  opened,  and  now  the  hush  that  fell 
upon  the  assembled  "gentlemen"  was  deeper  and  more  lasting. 

Evidently,  the  person  who  entered  was  a  stranger  to  all  in 
the  Thieves'  Tavern,  for  such  the  building  was. 

He  was  a  young  man,  with  a  countenance  half  fierce,  half 
desperate,  wholly  depraved.  He  was  haggard,  dirty,  and 
ragged,  having  the  look  and  the  gait  of  a  man  who  has 
travelled  far  and  is  footsore  and  weary.  As  he  approached  the 
group  about  the  bar  it  was  also  evident  that  he  was  half  in- 
toxicated. 

"Good  evening  sirs,"  he  said  with  surly  indifference. 
Then  to  the  man  behind  the  bar :  "  Mix  us  a  cocktail,  old 
Top,  and  strong." 

While  the.  bar  keeper  was  deftly  shaking  up  the  desired 
drink,  the  men  before  the  counter  drew  further  away  from 
the  stranger,  and  some  of  them  began  a  whispered  conver- 
sation. 


"STANHOPE'S  FIRST  TRICK."  55 

The  last  arrival  eyed  them  with  a  sneer  of  contempt,  and  said 
to  the  bar  keeper,  as  he  gulped  down  his  drink  :  "Your  coves 
act  like  scared  kites.  Probably  they  ain't  used  to  good  society." 

"See  here,  my  friend,"  spoke  a  blustering  fellow,  advanc- 
ing toward  him,  "  you  made  a  little  mistake.  This  ere  ain't 
a  tramps'  lodgin'  house." 

"  Ain't  it  ?"  queried  the  stranger ;  "  then  what  the  Moses  are 
you  doiu'  here?" 

"You'll  swallow  that,  my  hearty!" 

"When?" 

The  stranger  threw  himself  into  an  attitude  of  defence  and 
glared  defiance  at  his  opponent. 

"  Wax  him,  Charley !" 

"Let's  fire  him  out!" 

"  Hold  on  gentlemen ;  fair  play  !" 

"  I'll  give  you  one  more  chance,"  said  the  blusterer.  "  Ask 
my  pardon  and  then  mizzle  instantly,  or  I'll  have  ye  cut  up  in 
sections  as  sure  as  my  name's  Runimey  Joe." 

The  half  intoxicated  man  was  no  coward.  Evidently  he 
was  ripe  for  a  quarrel. 

"  I  intend  to  stop  here !"  he  cried,  bringing  his  fist  down 
upon  the  counter  with  a  force  that  made  it  creak.  "I'm  goin' 
to  stay  right  here  till  the  old  Nick  comes  to  fetch  me.  And 
I'm  goin'  ter  send  your  teeth  down  your  big  throat  in  three 
minutes." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  exclamations,  a  drawing  of  weapons, 
and  a  forward  rush.  Then  sudden  silence. 

The  man  who  had  lately  ordered  drinks  for  the  crowd, 
was  standing  between  the  combatants,  one  hand  upon  the 
breast  of  the  last  comer,  the  other  grasping  a  pistol  levelled 
just  under  the  nose  of  Rummey  Joe. 


56  DANGEEOUS  GEOTJND. 

"  Drop  yer  fist,  boy !  Put  up  that  knife,  Joe !  Let's  un- 
derstand each  other." 

Then  addressing  the  stranger,  but  keeping  an  eye  upon 
Rummey  Joe,  he  saicf : 

"See  here,  my  hearty,  you  don't  quite  take  in  the  sitera- 
tion.  This  is  a  sort  of  club  house,  not  open  to  the  general  pub- 
lic. If  you  want  to  hang  out  here,  you  must  show  your  cred- 
entials." 

The  stranger  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  without  so 
much  as  a  glance  at  his  antagonist,  said  : 

"  Your  racket  is  fair  enough.  I  know  where  I  am,  and 
ye've  all  got  a  right  to  see  my  colors.  I'll  show  ye  my 
hand,  and  then" — with  a  baleful  glare  at  Rummey  Joe — "I'll 
settle  with  that  blackguard." 

Advancing  to  one  of  the  tables,  he  deliberately  lifted  his 
foot  and,  resting  it  upon  the  table  top,  rolled  up  the  leg  of  his 
trousers,  and  pulled  down  a  dirty  stocking  over  his  low  shoe. 

"There's  my  passport,  gentlemen." 

They  crowded  about  him  and  gazed  upon  the  naked  ankle, 
that  bore  the  imprint  of  a  broad  band,  sure  indication  that  the 
limb  had  recently  been  decorated  with  a  ball  and  chain. 

"And  now,"  said  the  ex-convict,  turning  fiercely,  "I'll 
touch  you  the  kind  of  a  tramp  I  am,  Mr.  Rummey  Joe !" 

Before  a  hand  or  voice  could  be  raised  to  prevent  it,  the  two 
men  had  grappled,  and  were  struggling  fiercely  for  the  mas- 
tery. 

"  Give  them  a  show,  boys!"  some  one  said. 

The  crowd  drew  back  and  watched  the  combat ;  watched 
with  unconcern  until  they  saw  their  comrade,  Rummey  Joe, 
weakening  in  the  grasp  of  his  antagonist;  until  knives  flashed 
in  the  hand  of  each,  and  fierce  blows  were  struck  on  both  sides. 


•*  There's  my  passport,  gentlemen." — page  56. 


58  [DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Then,  when  Rummey  Joe,  uttering  a  shriek  of  pain,  went  down 
underneath  the  knife  of  the  victor,  there  was  a  roar  and  a 
rush,  and  the  man  who  had  conquered  their  favorite  was 
borne  down  by  half  a  dozen  strong  arms,  menaced  by  as  many 
sharp,  glittering  knives. 

But  again  the  scene  shifted. 

An  agile  form  was  bounding  about  among  them ;  blows  fell 
swift  as  rain ;  there  was  a  lull  in  the  combat,  and  when  the 
wildly  struggling  figures,  some  .scattered  upon  the  floor,  some 
thrown  back  upon  each  other,  recovered  from  their  consterna- 
tion, they  saw  that  the  convict  had  struggled  up  upon  one 
elbow,  while,  directly  astride  of  his  prostrate  body,  stood  the 
man  who  had  asked  for  his  credentials,  fierce  contempt  in  his 
face,  and,  in  either  hand,  a  heavy  six  shooter. 

"  Don't  pull,  boys,  I've  got  the  drop  on  ye !  Cowards,  to 
tackle  a  single  man,  six  of  ye!" 

"  By  Heavens,  he's  killed  Rummey !" 

"  No  matter ;  it  was  a  fair  fight,  and  Rummey  at  the  bottom 
of  the  blame." 

"  All  the  same  he'll  never  kill  a  pal  of  ours,  and  live  to  tell 
it !  Stand  off,  Cully  Devens  !" 

"  No,  sir  !  I  am  going  to  take  this  wounded  man  out  of 
this  without  anoth  •.  vau-h,  if  I  have  to  send  every  mother's 
son  of  you  to  perdition." 

His  voice  rang  out  clear  and  commanding.  In  the  might 
of  his  wrath,  he  had  forgotten  the  language  of  Cully  Devens 
and  spoken  as  a  man  to  cowards. 

The  effect  was  electrical. 

From  among  the  men  standing  at  bay,  one  sprang  forward, 
crying: 

"  Boys,  here's  a  traitor  amongst  us !  Who  are  ye,  ye  sneak, 
that  has  played  yerself  fer  Cully  Devens  ?" 


'Don't  pull,  boys,  I've  got  the  drop  ou  yel"— page  58. 

69 


60  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

The  lithe  body  bent  slightly  forward,  a  low  laugh  crossed  the 
lips  of  the  bogus  Cully,  the  brown  eyes  lighted  up,  and  flashed 
in  the  eyes  of  the  men  arrayed  against  him.  Then  came  the 
answer,  coolly,  as  if  the  announcement  were  scarcely  worth 
making: 

"Richard  Stanhope  is  my  name,  and  I've  got  a  trump  here 
for  every  trick  you  can  show  me.  Step  up,  boys,  don't  be 
bashful!" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

STANHOPE'S  HUMANITY. 

"Richard  Stanhope  is  my  name,  and  I've  got  a  trump  here 
for  every  trick  you  can  show  ine.  Step  up,  boys,  don't  be  bash- 
ful !" 

Momentous  silence  followed  this  announcement,  while  the 
habitue*  of  the  Thieves'  Tavern  glanced  into  each  others' 
faces  in  consternation. 

An  ordinary  meddler,  however  much  his  courage  and  skill, 
would  have  met  with  summary  chastisement;  but  Dick  Stan- 
hope! 

Not  a  man  among  them  but  knew  the  result  of  an  attack 
upon  him.  Bullets  swift  and  sure,  in  the  brains  or  hearts  of 
some ;  certain  vengeance,  sooner  or  later,  upon  all. 

To  avoid,  on  all  possible  occasions,  an  open  encounter  with 
an  officer  of  the  law,  is  the  natural  instinct  of  the  crook. 
Besides,  Stanhope  was  never  off  his  guard ;  his  presence,  alone 


STANHOPE'S  HUMANITY.  61 

among  them,  was  sure  indication  that  they  were  in  more  dan- 
ger than  he. 

So  reasoned  the  astonished  scoundrels,  instantly,  instinct- 
tively. 

"  Look  here,  boys/'  Stanhope's  cool  voice  broke  in  upon  their 
silence;  "  I'm  here  on  a  little  private  business  which  need  not 
concern  you,  unless  you  make  me  trouble.  This  man,"  nod- 
ding down  at  the  prostrate  ex-convict,  "is  my  game.  I'm  go- 
ing to  take  him  out  of  this,  and  if  you  raise  a  hand  to  pre- 
vent it,  or  take  a  step  to  follow  me,  you'll  find  yourselves  de- 
tained for  a  long  stretch." 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  gave  a  long,  low  whistle. 

"Hear  that,  my  good  sirs.  That's  a  note  of  preparation. 
One  more  such  will  bring  you  into  close  quarters.  If  you  are 
not  back  at  those  tables,  every  man  of  you,  inside  of  two  min- 
utes, I'll  give  the  second  call." 

Some  moved  with  agility,  some  reluctantly,  some  sullenly; 
but  they  all  obeyed  him. 

"  Now,  Pup,  come  out  and  help  me  lift  this  fellow.  Are 
you  badly  hurt,  my  man  ?" 

The  wounded  man  groaned  and  permitted  them  to  lift  him 
to  his  feet. 

"  He  can  walk,  I  think,"  went  on  Stanhope,  in  a  brisk, 
business-like  way.  ''Lean  on  me,  my  lad."  Then,  turning 
to  the  bar  keeper  and  thrusting  some  money  into  his  hand  : 
"  Give  these  fellows  another  round  of  drinks,  Pap.  Boys,  en- 
joy yourselves ;  ta-ta." 

And  without  once  glancing  back  at  them  he  half  led,  half 
supported,  the  wounded  man  out  from  the  bar-room,  up  the 
dirty  stone  steps,  and  into  the  dirtier  street. 

"  Boys/'  said  the  bar  keeper  as  he  distributed  the  drinks  at 


62  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Stanhope's  expense,  "  you  done  a  sensible  thing  when  you  let 
up  on  Dick  Stanhope.  He's  got  the  alley  lined  with  peelers  and 
don't  you  forget  it." 

For  a  little  way  Stanhope  led  his  man  in  silence.  Then 
the  rescued  ex-convict  made  a  sudden  convulsive  movement, 
gathered  himself  for  a  mighty  effort,  broke  from  the  support- 
ing grasp  of  the  detective,  and  fled  away  down  the  dark  street. 

Down  one  block  and  half  across  the  next  he  ran  manfully. 
Then  he  reeled,  staggered  wildly  from  side  to  side,  threw  up 
his  arms,  and  fell  heavily  upon  his  face. 

"  I  knew  you'd  bring  yourself  down,"  said  Stanhope,  com- 
ing up  behind  him.  "You  should  not  treat  a  man  as  an 
enemy,  sir,  until  he's  proven  himself  such." 

He  lifted  the  prostrate  man,  turning  him  easily,  and  rested 
the  fallen  head  upon  his  knee. 

"  Can  you  swallow  a  little  ?"  pressing  a  flask  of  brandy  to 
the  lips  of  the  ex-convict. 

The  man  gasped  and  feebly  swallowed  a  little  of  the  liquor. 

"  There,"  laying  down  the  flask,  "  are  your  wounds  bleed- 
ing?" 

The  wounded  man  groaned,  and  then  whispered  feebly : 

"  I'm  done  for — I  think — are  you — an  officer  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Af— after  me?" 

"No." 

"Do — do  you — know — " 

"  Do  I  know  who  you  are  ?  Not  exactly,  but  I  take  you 
to  be  one  of  the  convicts  who  broke  jail  last  week." 

The  man  made  a  convulsive  movement,  and  then,  battling  for 
breath  as  he  spoke,  wailed  out : 

"  Listen — you  want  to  take  me  back  to  prison — there  is  a 


HOW  A  MASQUERADE  BEGAN.  63 

reward — of  course.  If  you  only  knew — when  I  was  a  boy — 
on  the  western  prairies — free,  free.  Then  here  in  the  city — 
driven  to  beg — to  steal  to — .  Oh !  don't  take  me  back  to  die  in 
prison  !  You  don't  know  the  horror  of  it!" 

A  look  of  pitying  tenderness  lighted  the  face  bent  above  the 
dying  man. 

" Poor  fellow !"  said  Stanhope  softly.  "I  am  an  officer  of 
the  law,  but  I  am  also  human.  If  you  recover,  I  must  do  my 
duty:  if  you  must  die,  you  shall  not  die  in  prison." 

"I  shall  die,"  said  the  man,  in  a  hoarse  whisper;  "I  know 
I  shall  die— die." 

His  head  pressed  more  heavily  against  Stanhope's  knee ;  he 
seemed  a  heavier  weight  upon  his  arm.  Bending  still  lower, 
the  detective  listened  for  his  breathing,  passed  his  hand  over 
the  limp  fingers  and  clammy  face.  Then  -he  gathered  the 
form,  that  was  more  than  his  own  weight,  in  his  muscular 
arms,  and  bore  it  away  through  the  darkness,  muttering,  as  he 
went: 

"That  was  a  splendid  stand-off!  What  would  those  fellows 
say,  if  they  knew  that  Dick  Stanhope,  single-handed  and  alone, 
had  walked  their  alleys  in  safety,  and  bluffed  their  entire  gang !" 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HOW  A   MASQUERADE   BEGAN. 

A  crush  of  carriages  about  a  stately  doorway ;  a  flitting  of 
gorgeous,  mysterious,  grotesque  and  dainty  figures  through  the 
broad,  open  portal ;  a  glow  of  lights ;  a  gleaming  of  vivid 
color;  a  glory  of  rich  blossoms;  a  crash  of  music;  a  bubble 


64  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

of  joyous  voices;  beauty,  hilarity,  luxury  everywhere. 

It  is  the  night  of  the  great  Warburton  masquerade,  the 
event  of  events  in  the  social  world.  Archibald  Warburton, 
the  invalid  millionaire,  has  opened  his  splendid  doors,  for  the 
pleasure  of  his  young  and  lovely  wife,  to  receive  the  friendly 
five  hundred  who  adore  her,  and  have  crowned  her  queen  of 
society. 

He  will  neither  receive,  nor  mingle  with  his  wife's  guests; 
he  is  too  much  an  invalid,  too  confirmed  a  recluse  for  that. 
But  his  brother,  Alan  Warburton,  younger  by  ten  years,  hand- 
somer by  all  that  constitutes  manly  beauty,  will  play  the  host 
in  his  stead — and  do  it  royally,  too,  for  Alan  is  a  man  of  the 
world,  a  man  of  society,  a  refined,  talented,  aristocratic  young 
man  of  leisure.  Quite  a  Lion  as  well,  for  he  has  but  recently 
returned  from  an  extended  European  tour  and  is  the  "newest 
man"  in  town.  And  society  dearly  loves  that  which  is  new, 
especially  when,  with  the  newness,  there  is  combined  manly 
beauty — and  wealth. 

With  such  a  host  as  handsome  Alan  Warburton,  such  a 
hostess  as  his  brother's  beautiful  wife,  and  such  an  assistant  as 
her  sparkling,  piquant  little  companion,  Winnifred  French, 
who  could  predict  for  this  masquerade  anything  but  the  most 
joyous  ending,  the  most  pronounced  success  ?  Ah  !  our  social 
riddles  are  hard  to  read. 

Into  this  scene  of  revelry,  while  it  is  yet  early,  before  the 
music  has  reached  its  wildest  strains,  and  the  dancing  its  gid- 
diest whirl,  comes  a  smart  servant  girl,  leading  by  the  hand 
a  child  of  four  or  five  summers,  a  dainty  fair-haired  creature. 
In  her  fairy  costume  of  white  satin  with  its  silvery  frostwork 
and  gleaming  pearls;  with  her  gossamer  wings  and  glitter- 
ing aureole  of  spun  gold;  her  dainty  wand  and  childish  grace, 


HOW  A  MASQUERADE  BEGAN.  65 

she  is  the  loveliest  sight  in  the  midst  of  all  that  loveliness,  for 
no  disfiguring  mask  hides  the  beautiful,  eager  face  that  gazes 
down  the  long  vista  of  decorated  drawing  rooms,  library, 
music  room,boudoir,  in  wondering,  half  frightened  expectation. 

"They're  beginning  to  dance  down  there,"  says  the  maid, 
drawing  the  child  toward  a  lofty  archway,  through  which 
they  can  watch  the  swiftly  whirling  figures  of  the  dancers. 
"  Why,  do  come  along,  Miss  Daisy ;  one  would  think  your  Pa's 
house  was  full  of  bears  and  wild-cats,  to  see  your  actions." 

But  the  child  draws  back  and  grasps  fearfully  at  the  skirts 
of  her  attendant. 

"  What  makes  'em  look  so  queer,  Millie  ?   Isn't  you  afraid  ?" 

"Why  no,  Miss  Daisy.  There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 
See ;  all  these  funny-looking  people  are  your  papa's  friends, 
and  your  new  mamma's,  and  your  uncle  Alan's.  Look, 
now," — drawing  the  reluctant  child  forward, — "just  look  at 
them  !  There  goes  a — a  Turk,  I  guess,  and — " 

"  What  makes  they  all  have  black  things  on  their  faces, 
Millie?" 

"  Why,  child,  that's  the  fun  of  it  all.  If  it  wasn't  for  them 
masks  everybody  would  know  everybody  else,  and  there 
wouldn't  be  no  masquerade." 

"No  what?" 

"No  masquerade,  child.  Now  look  at  that;  there  goes  a 
pope,  or  a  cardinal ;  and  there,  oh  my !  that  must  be  a  Gipsy — 
or  an  Injun." 

"A  Gipsy  or  an  Indian  ;  well  done,  Millie,  ha  ha  ha!" 

At  the  sound  of  these  words  they  turn  swiftly.  A  tall 
masker,  in  a  black  and  scarlet  domino,  is  standing  just  be- 
hind them,  and  little  Daisy  utters  one  frightened  cry  and 
buries  her  face  in  Millie's  drapery. 

5 


66  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Why,  Daisy;"  laughs  the  masker ;  "little  Daisy,  are  you 
frightened  ?  Come,  this  will  never  do." 

With  a  quick  gesture  he  flings  off  the  domino  and  removes 
the  mask  from  his  face,  thus  revealing  a  picturesque  sailor's 
costume,  and  a  handsome  face  that  bears,  upon  one  cheek,  the 
representation  of  a  tattooed  anchor. 

While  he  is  thus  transforming  himself,  the  outer  door  opens 
and  admits  a  figure  clad  in  soft  flowing  robes  of  scarlet  and 
blue  and  white,  with  a  mantle  of  stars  about  the  stately  shoul- 
ders, and  the  cap  of  Liberty  upon  the  well-poised  head.  The 
entrance  of  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  is  unnoticed  by  the  group 
about  the  archway,  and,  after  a  swift  glance  at  them,  that  august 
lady  glides  behind  a  screen  which  stands  invitingly  near  the 
door,  and,  sinikng  upon  a  divan  in  the  corner,  seems  in- 
tent upon  the  classic  arrangement  of  her  white  and  crimson 
draperies. 

"  Now  look,"  says  Alan  Warburton,  flinging  the  discarded 
domino  upon  a  chair;  "look,  Daisy,  darling.  Why,  pet, you 
were  afraid  of  your  own  uncle  Alan." 

The  little  one  peers  at  him  from  behind  Millie's  skirts  and 
then  comes  slowly  forward. 

"Why,  uncle  Alan,  how  funny  you  look,  and — your  face 
is  dirty !" 

"  Oh!  Daisy,"  taking  her  up  in  his  arms  and  smiling  into  her 
eyes;  "  you  are  a  sadly  uncultivated  young  person.  My  face 
is  tattooed,  for  '  I'm  a  sailor  bold.' " 

While  uncle  and  niece  are  thus  engaged  in  playful  talk,  and 
Millie  is  intently  watching  the  dancers,  they  are  again  ap- 
proached ;  this  time  by  two  ladies, — one  in  the  flowing,  glitter- 
ing, gorgeous  robes  of  Sunlight,  the  other  in  a  dainty  Carmen 
costume  of  scarlet  and  black  and  gold.  Both  ladies  are  masked, 


68  DANGEROUS  GROUND, 

and,  as  they  enter  from  an  alcove  in  the  rear  of  the  room,  they, 
too,  approach  unperceived.  Seeing  the  group  about  the  arch- 
way, one  of  them  makes  a  signal  of  silence.  They  stop,  and 
standing  close  together,  wait. 

"It  just  occurs  to  me,  Millie,"  says  Alan  Warburton,  turn- 
ing suddenly  to  the  maid  ;  "it  just  occurs  to  me  to  inquire  how 
you  came  in  charge  of  Miss  Daisy  here.  Where  is  Miss  Daisy's 
maid  ?" 

The  girl  throws  back  her  head,  with  a  gesture  that  causes 
every  ribbon  upon  her  cap  to  flutter,  as  she  replies,  with  a 
look  of  defiance  and  an  indignant  sniif : 

"J//-X.  Warburton  put  Miss  Daisy  in  my  care,  sir,  and  I 
don't  know  u-hcre  Miss  Daisy's  maid  may  be." 

"  Umph !  well  it  seems  to  me  that — "  He  stops  and  looks  at 
the  child. 

"  That  I  ain't  the  properest  person  to  look  after  Miss  Daisy, 
I  'spose  you  mean  — " 

"Millie,  you  are  growing  impertinent." 

"Because  I'm  a  poor  girl  that  the  mistress  of  this  house 
took  in  out  of  kindness — " 

"Millie;  will  you  stop!"  and  he  puts  little  Daisy  down 
with  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"I'm  trying  to  do  my  duty,"  goes  on  the  irate  damsel; 
"  and  Mrs.  Warburton,  my  mistress,  has  given  me  my  orders, 
sir,  consequently — " 

"Oh!  if  Mrs.  Warburton  has  issued  such  judicious  or- 
ders," and  he  takes  up  his  mask  and  domino,  "I  retire 
from  the  field." 

"  It's  time  to  stop  them,  Winnie,"  says  the  lady  in  the 
garments  of  Sunlight,  taking  off  her  mask  hastily.  "  Alan 
never  could  get  on  with  a  raw  servant.  I  see  war  in  Millie's 
eyes," 


HOW  A  MASQUERADE  BEGAN.  69 

Then  she  comes  forward,  mask  in  hand,  and  followed  by 
the  laughing  Carmen. 

"Alan,  you  are  in  difficulty,  I  see,"  laughing,  in  spite  of 
her  attempt  at  gravity.  "  Millie,  I  fear,  is  not  quite  up  to  your 
standard  of  silent  perfection." 

"  May  I  ask,  Mrs.  "Warburton,  if  she  is  your  ideal  of  a 
companion  for  this  child?" 

The  tone  is  faintly  tinged  with  scorn  and  sternness,  and 
Leslie  Warburton's  eyes  cease  to  smile  as  she  replies,  with 
dignity : 

"She  is  my  servant,  Mr.  Warburton.  We  will  not  discuss 
her  merits  in  her  presence.  I  will  relieve  you  of  any  further 
trouble  on  her  account." 

"  Where,  may  I  ask,  is  Daisy's  own  maid  ?" 

"  In  her  room,  with  a  headache  that  unfits  her  for  duty. 
Come  here,  Daisy." 

Up  to  this  moment  Alan  Warburton  has  kept  the  hand  of 
the  child  clasped  in  his  own.  He  now  releases  it  with  evi- 
dent reluctance,  and  the  little  fairy  bounds  toward  her  step- 
mother. 

"  Mamma,  how  lovely  you  look !"  reaching  up  her  arms  to 
caress  the  head  that  bends  toward  her.  "Mamma,  take  me 
with  you  where  the  music  is." 

"  Have  you  been  to  Papa's  room,  Daisy  ?  You  know  we 
must  not  let  him  feel  lonely  to-night." 

"  Exceeding  thoughtfulness,"  mutters  Alan  Warburton  to 
himself,  as  he  turns  to  resume  his  domino.  Then  aloud,  to  his 
sister-in-law,  he  says: 

"  I  have  just  visited  my  brother's  room,  Mrs.  Warburton ; 
he  washed  to  see  you  for  a  moment,  I  believe.  Daisy,  will  you 
come  with  me  ?" 


70  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

He  extends  his  hand  to  the  child,  who  gives  a  willful  toss 
of  the  head  as  she  replies,  clinging  closer  to  her  stepmother 
the  while : 

"  No  ;  I  going  to  stay  with  my  new  mamma." 

As  Alan  Warburton  turns  away,  with  a  shade  of  annoyance 
upon  his  face,  he  meets  the  mirthful  eyes  of  Carmen,  and  is 
greeted  by  a  saucy  sally. 

"What  a  bear  you  can  be,  Alan,  when  you  try  your  hand 
at  domestic  discipline.  Put  on  your  domino  and  your  dig- 
nity once  more.  You  look  like  a  school  boy  who  has  just  been 
whipped." 

"  Ah,  Winnie,"  he  says  seriously,  coming  close  to  her  side 
and  seeking  to  look  into  the  blue,  mocking  eyes,  "  no  need  for 
me  to  see  your  face,  your  sweet  voice  and  your  saucy  words 
both  betray  you." 

"Just  as  your  bad  temper  has  betrayed  you!  It's  a  pity 
you  can't  appreciate  Millie,  sir;  but  then  your  sense  of  the 
ridiculous  is  shockingly  deficient.  There  goes  a  waltz,"  start- 
ing forward  hastily. 

"It's  my  waltz;  wait,  Winnie." 

But  the  laughing  girl  is  half  way  down  the  long  drawing- 
room,  and  he  hurries  after,  replacing  his  mask  and  pulling  on 
his  domino  as  he  goes. 

Then  Leslie  Warburton,  with  a  sigh  upon  her  lips,  draws 
the  child  again  toward  her  and  says: 

"  You  may  wait  here,  Millie ;  I  will  take  care  of  Daisy  for 
a  short  time.  And,  Millie,  remember  in  future  when  Mr. 
Warburton  addresses  you,  that  you  are  to  answer  him  respect- 
fully. Come,  darling." 

She  turns  toward  the  entrance,  the  child's  hand  clasped 
tightly  in  her  own,  and  there,  directly  before  her,  stands  a 


VERNET  "CALLS  A  TURN.'*  71 

figure  which  she  has  longed,  yet  dreaded,  to  meet — the  God- 
dess of  Liberty. 

With  a  gasp  of  surprise,  and  a  heart  throbbing  with  agita- 
tion, Leslie  Warburton  hurriedly  replaces  her  mask  and  turns 
to  Millie. 

"  Millie,  on  second  thought,  you  may  take  Daisy  to  her 
papa's  room,  and  tell  him  I  will  be  there  soon.  Daisy,  dar- 
ling, go  with  Millie." 

"  But,  Mamma,— " 

"  There,  there,  dear,  go  to  papa  now ;  mamma  will  come." 

With  many  a  reluctant,  backward  glance,  Daisy  suffers  her- 
self to  be  led  away,  and  then  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  advances 
and  bows  before  the  lady  of  the  mansion. 

"  I  am  not  mistaken,"  whispers  that  lady,  glancing  about 
her  as  if  fearing  an  eavesdropper;  "you  are — " 

"  First,"  interrupts  a  mellow  voice  from  behind  the  starry 
mask,  "  are  you  Mrs.  Warburton?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  am  Richard  Stanhope/' 


CHAPTER  VIH. 
VERNET  "CALLS  A  TURN." 

Leslie  Warburton  had  replaced  her  mask,  but  the  face  she 
concealed  was  engraven  upon  the  memory  of  her  vis-a-vis. 

A  pure  pale  face,  with  a  firm  chin ;  a  rare  red  mouth,  proud 
yet  sensitive;  a*  pair  of  brown  tender  eyes,  with  a  touch  of 
sadness  in  their  depths;  and  a  broad  low  brow,  over  which 


72  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

clustered  thick  waves  of  sunny  auburn.  She  is  slender  and 
graceful,  carrying  her  head  proudly,  and  with  inherent  self- 
poise  in  gait  and  manner. 

She  glances  about  her  once  more,  and  then  says,  drawing 
still  nearer  the  disguised  detective: 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you,  Mr.  Stanhope,  and  we  have 
met  at  a  fortunate  moment.  Nearly  all  the  guests  have  ar- 
rived, and  everybody  is  dancing;  we  may  hope  for  a  few  un- 
disturbed moments  now.  You — you  have  no  reason  for  think- 
ing yourself  watched,  or  your  identity  suspected,  I  hope  ?" 

"None  whatever,  madam.  Have  you  any  fears  of  that 
sort?" 

"No;  none  that  are  well  grounded;  I  dislike  secrecy,  and 
the  necessity  for  it ;  I  suppose  lam  nervous.  Mr.  Stanhope," 
with  sudden  appeal  in  her  voice,  "  how  much  do  you  know 
concerning  me,  and  my  present  business  with  you?" 

"  Very  little.  During  my  drive  hither  with  Mr.  Follings- 
bee,  he  told  me  something  like  this :  He  esteemed  you  very 
highly;  he  had  known  you  for  years;  you  desired  the  services 
of  a  detective ;  he  had  named  me  as  available,  and  been  au- 
thorized by  you  to  secure  my  services.  He  said  that  he  knew 
very  little  concerning  the  nature  of  your  business  with  me, 
but  believed  that  all  that  you  did  would  be  done  wisely,  dis- 
creetly, and  from  the  best  of  motives.  He  pointed  you  out  to 
me  when  we  entered  the  house.  That  is  all,  madam." 

"  Thank  you.  Mr.  Follingsbee  is,  or  was,  the  tried  friend, 
as  well  as  legal  adviser,  of  my  adopted  father,  Thomas  Uliman, 
and  I  know  him  to  be  trustworthy.  When  he  spoke  of  you, 
Mr.  Stanhope,  he  knew  that  I  desired,  not  only  a  skillful 
detective,  but  a  true-hearted  man;  one  who  would  hold  a 
promise  sacred,  who  would  go  no  further  than  is  required  in 


VERNET  "CALLS  A  TURN."  73 

the  matter  in  hand,  and  who  would  respect  an  unhappy  woman's 
secret — should  it  become  known  to  him." 

Her  voice  died  in  her  throat,  and  Stanhope  rustled  his  gar- 
ments uneasily.  Then  she  rallied  and  went  on  bravely : 

"  Mr.  Follingsbee  assured  me  that  you  were  all  I  could  de- 


"  Mr.  Follingsbee  does  me  an  honor  which  I  appreciate." 

"And  so,  Mr.  Stanhope,  I  am  about  to  trust  you.  Let  us 
sit  here,  where  we  shall  be  unobserved,  and  tolerably  secure  from 
interruption." 

She  turns  toward  the  divan  behind  the  screen  and  seats  her- 
self thereon,  brushing  aside  her  glittering  drapery  to  aiford  the 
disguised  detective  a  place  beside  her. 

He  hesitates  a  moment,  then  takes  the  proffered  seat  and 
says,  almost  brusquely : 

"Madam,  give  me  my  instructions  as  rapidly  as  possible; 
the  very  walls  have  eyes  sometimes,  and — I  must  be  away 
from  here  before  midnight." 

"My  instructions  will  be  brief.  I  will  state  my  case,  and 
then  answer  any  questions  you  find  it  necessary  to  ask." 

"I  shall  ask  no  needless  questions,  madam." 

"  Then  listen."  She  nerves  herself  for  a  brave  effort,  and 
hurries  on,  her  voice  somewhat  agitated  in  spite  of  herself. 
"  For  three  months  past  I  have  been  conscious  that  I  am 
watched,  followed,  spied  upon.  I  have  been  much  annoyed 
by  this  espionage.  I  never  drive  or  walk  alone,  without  feel- 
ing that  my  shadow  is  not  far  away.  I  begin  to  fear  to  trust 
my  servants,  and  to  realize  that  I  have  an  enemy.  Mr.  Stan- 
hope, I  want  you  to  find  out  who  my  enemy  is." 

.  Behind  his  starry  mark,  her  listener  smiled  at  this  woman- 
like statement  of  the  case.     Then  he  said,  tersely : 

*4 


74  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"You  say  that  you  are  being  spied  upon.  How  do  you 
know  this  ?" 

"  At  first  by  intuition,  I  think;  a  certain  vague,  uneasy  con- 
sciousness of  a  strange,  inharmonious  presence  near  me.  Being 
thus  put  on  my  guard  and  roused  to  watchfulness,  I  have  con- 
trived to  see,  on  various  occasions,  the  same  figure  dogging  my 
steps." 

"  Um  !  Did  you  know  this  figure  ?" 

"  No ;  it  was  strange  to  me,  but  always  the  same." 

"  Then  your  spy  is  a  blunderer.  Let  us  try  and  sift  this 
matter :  A  lady  may  be  shadowed  for  numerous  reasons ;  do 
you  know  why  you  are  watched  ?" 

"  N — no,"    hesitatingly. 

"  So,"  thought  the  detective,  "  she  is  not  quite  frank,  with 
me."  Then  aloud:  "  Do  you  suspect  any  one  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Madam,  I  must  ask  some  personal  questions.  Please  an- 
swer them  frankly  and  truly,  or  not  at  all,  and  be  sure  that 
every  question  is  necessary,  every  answer  important." 

The  lady  bows  her  head,  and  he  proceeds : 

"  First,  then,  have  you  a  secret  ?" 

She  starts,  turns  her  head  away,  and  is  silent. 

The  detective  notes  the  movement,  smiles  again,  and  goes 
on: 

"  Let  us  advance  a  step  ;  you  have  a  secret." 

"Why— do  you— say  that?" 

"  Because  you  have  yourself  told  me  as  much.  ^Ye  never 
feel  that  uneasy  sense  of  espionage,  so  well  described  by  you, 
madam,  until  we  have  something  to  conceal — the  man  who 
carries  no  purse,  fears  no  robber.  You  have  a  secret.  This 
has  made  you  watchful,  and,  being  watchful,  you  discover 


VERNET  "CALLS  A  TURN."  75 

that  you  have — what?     An  enemy,  or  only  a  tormentor?" 

"Both,  perhaps,"  she  says  sadly. 

"  My  task,  then,  is  to  find  this  enemy.  Mrs.  Warburton, 
I  shall  not  touch  your  secret ;  at  the  same  time  I  warn  you  in 
this  search  it  is  likely  to  discover  itself  to  me  without  my  seek- 
ing. Rest  assured  that  I  shall  respect  it.  First,  then,  you  have 
a  secret.  Second,  you  have  an  enemy.  Mrs.  Warburton,  I 
should  ask  fewer  questions  if  I  could  see  your  face." 

Springing  up  suddenly,  she  tears  off  her  mask,  and  stand- 
ing before  him  says  with  proud  fierceness : 

"  And  why  may  you  not  see  my  face !  There  is  no  shame 
for  my  mask  to  conceal !  I  have  a  secret,  true ;  but  it  is  not 
of  my  making.  It  has  been  forced  upon  me.  I  am  not  an 
intriguante:  I  am  a  persecuted  woman.  I  am  not  seeking 
it  to  conceal  wrong  doing,  but  to  protect  myself  from  those 
that  wrong  me." 

The  words  that  begin  so  proudly,  end  in  a  sob,  and,  cover- 
ing her  face  with  her  white,  jeweled  hands,  Leslie  Warburton 
turns  and  rests  her  head  against  the  screen  beside  her. 

Then  impulsive,  unconventional  Dick  Stanhope  springs  lip, 
and,  as  if  he  were  administering  comfort  to  a  sorrowing  child, 
takes  the  two  hands  away  from  the  tear-wet  face,  and  hold- 
ing them  fast  in  his  own,  looks  straight  down  into  the  brown 
eyes  as  he  says : 

"  Dear  lady,  trust  me !  Even  as  I  believe  you,  believe  me,  when 
I  say  that  your  confidence  shall  not  be  violated.  Your  secret 
shall  be  safe;  shall  remain  yours.  Your  enemy  shall  become 
mine.  If  you  cannot  trust  me,  I  cannot  help  you." 

"  Oh  !  I  do  trust  you,  Mr.  Stanhope ;  I  must.  Ask  of  me 
nothing,  for  I  can  tell  you  no  more.  To  send  for  you  was 
unwise,  perhaps,  but  I  have  been  so  tormented  by  this  spy 


76  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

upon  my  movements  ....  and  I  cannot  fight  in  the  dark.  It 
was  imprudent  to  bring  you  here  to-night,  but  I  dared  not 
meet  you  elsewhere." 

There  is  a  lull  in  the  music  and  a  hum  of  approaching 
voices.  She  hastily  resumes  her  mask,  and  Stanhope  says: 

"  We  had  better  separate  now,  madam.  Trust  your  case 
to  me.  I  cannot  remain  here  much  longer,  otherwise  I  might 
find  a  clue  to-night, — important  business  calls  me.  After  to- 
night my  time  is  all  yours,  and  be  sure  I  shall  find  out  your 
enemy." 

People  are  flocking  in  from  the  dancing-room.  With  a 
gesture  of  farewell,  "  Sunlight"  flits  out  through  the  door  just 
beside  the  screen,  and  a  moment  later,  the  Goddess  of  Liberty 
is  sailing  through  the  long  drawing-rooms  on  the  arm  of  a 
personage  in  the  guise  of  Uncle  Sam, 

"  What  success,  my  friend  ?" 

"It's  all  right,"  replies  the  Goddess  of  Liberty;  "I  have 
seen  the  lady." 

A  moment  more  and  her  satin  skirts  trail  across  the  toes  of 
a  tall  fellow  in  the  dress  of  a  British  officer,  who  is  leaning 
against  a  vine-wreathed  pillar,  intently  watching  the  crowd 
through  his  yellow  mask.  At  sight  of  the  Goddess  of  Liberty, 
he  starts  forward  and  a  sharp  exclamation  crosses  his  lips. 

"Shades  of  Moses,"  he  mutters  to  himself,  "I  can't  be  mis- 
taken ;  that  is  Dick  Stanhope's  Vienna  costume !  Is  that 
Dick  inside  it?  It  is!  it  must  be!  \\  hat  is  he  doing?  On 
a  lay,  or  on  a  lark  ?  Dick  Stanhope  is  not  given  to  this  sort 
of  frolic ;  I  must  find  out  what  it  means  !" 

And  Van  Vernet  leaves  his  post  of  observation  and  follows 
slowly,  keeping  the  unconscious  Goddess  of  Liberty  always  in 
sight. 


"Dear  lady,  trust  me  !    Your  seeret  shall  be  safe  ;  your  enemy  shall 
become  mine!" — page  75. 

77 


78  DANGEROUS  GKOUND. 

Passing  through  a  net-work  of  vines,  the  British  officer 
comes  upon  two  people  in  earnest  conversation.  The  one 
wears  a  scarlet  and  black  domino,  the  other  a  coquettish 
Carmen  costume. 

"  That  black  and  red  domino  is  my  patron,"  mutters  the 
officer  as  he  glides  by  unnoticed.  "  He  does  not  see  me  and  I 
do  not  wish  to  see  him  just  at  present."  A  few  steps  farther 
and  the  British  officer  comes  to  a  sudden  halt. 

"By  Heavens!"  he  ejaculates,  half  aloud;  "what  a  chancel 
see  before  me!  It  would  be  worth  something  to  know  what 
brought  Dick  Stanhope  here  to-night;  it  would  be  worth  yet 
more  to  keep  him  here  until  after  midnight.  If  I  had  an  accom- 
plice to  detain  him  while  I,  myself,  appear  at  the  Agency  in 

time,  then  theC street  Raid  would  move  without  him,  the 

lead  would  be  given  to  me.  It's  worth  trying  for.  It  shall 
be  done,  and  my  patron  in  black  and  red  shall  help  me." 

He  turns,  and  only  looks  back  to  mutter : 

"Go  on,  Dick ' Stanhope ;  this  night  shall  begin  the  trial 
that,  when  ended,  shall  decide  which  of  the  two  is  the  better 
man !" 

And  the  British  officer  hurries  straight  on  until  he  stands 
beside  the  black  and  scarlet  domino. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"A  FALSE  MOVE  IN  THE  GAME." 

Pretty,  piquant  Winnifred  French  was  the  staunch  friend 
of  Leslie  Warburton. 

When  Winnie  was  the  petted  only  daughter  ot  "  French, 
the  rich  merchant,"  she  and  Leslie  Uliman  had  been  firm 


WA  FALSE  MOVE  IN  THE  GAME."  79 

friends.  When  Leslie  Uliman,  the  adopted  daughter  of  the 
aristocratic  Uliman's,  gave  her  hand  in  marriage  to  Archibald 
Warburton,  a  wealthy  invalid  and  a  widower  with  one  child, 
Winnie  was  her  first  bridesmaid. 

Time  had  swept  away  the  fortune  of  French,  the  merchant, 
and  death  had  robbed  Leslie  of  her  adopted  parents,  and  then 
Winnifred  French  gladly  accepted  the  position  of  salaried  com- 
panion to  her  dearest  friend. 

Not  long  after,  Alan  Warburton  had  returned  from  abroad, 
and  then  had  begun  a  queer  complication. 

For  some  reason  known 'only  to  himself,  Alan  Warburton 
had  chosen  to  dislike  his  beautiful  sister-in-law,  and  he  had  con- 
ceived a  violent  ad  miration  for  Winnie, — an  admiration  which 
might  have  been  returned,  perhaps,  had  Winnie  been  less 
loyal  in  her  friendship  for  Leslie.  But,  perceiving  Alan's 
dislike  for  her  dearest  friend,  Winnie  lost  no  opportunity 
for  annoying  him,  and  lavishing  upon  him  her  stinging 
sarcasms. 

On  her  part,  Leslie  Warburton  loved  her  companion  with 
a  strong  sisterly  affection.  As  for  her  feelings  toward  Alan 
Warburton,  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  guess,  from  her 
manner,  whether  he  was  to  her  an  object  of  love,  hatred,  or 
simple  indifference. 

When  Winnie  and  Alan  turned  their  backs  upon  the  scene 
in  the  anteroom,  and  entered  the  dancing  hall,  the  girl  was  in 
a  particularly  perverse  mood. 

"I  shall  not  dance,"  she  said  petulantly.  "It's  too  early 
and  too  warm,"  and  she  entered  a  flowery  alcove,  and  seated 
herself  upon  a  couch  overhung  with  vines, 

"  May  I  sit  down,  Winnie?" 

"No," 


80  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Just  tor  a  moment's  chat."  And  he  seated  himself  as 
calmly  as  if  he  had  received  a  gracious  permission. 

"You  are  angry  with  me  again,  Winnie.  Is  my  sister-in- 
law  always  to  come  between  us?" 

She  turned  and  her  blue  eyes  flashed  upon  him. 

"  Once  and  for  all,"  she  said  sharply,  "tell  me  why  you  hate 
Leslie  so?" 

"Tell  me  why  she  has  poisoned  your  mind  against  me?" 
he  retorted. 

"She!  Leslie  Warburton!  This  goes  beyond  a  joke,  sir. 
Leslie  Warburton  is  what  Leslie-  UK  man  was,  a  lady,  in 
thought,  word,  and  deed.  Oh,  I  can  read  you,  sir!  Her 
crime,  in  your  eyes,  is  that  she  has  married  your  brother.  la 
she  not  a  good  and  faithful  wife;  a  tender,  loving  mother  to 
little  Daisy?  You  have  hinted  that  she  does  not  love  her 
husband — by  what  right  do  you  make  the  abortion?  You 
believe  that  she  has  married  for  money, — at  least  these  are 
fashionable  sins  I  Humph!  In  all  probability  I  shall  marry 
for  money  myself." 

"Winnifred!" 

"  I  shall;  I  am  sure  of  it .  It's  an  admirable  feature  of  our 
best  society.  If  we  are  heiresses,  we  are  surrounded  with 
lovers  who  are  fascinated  by  our  bank  account.  If  we  are 
poor,  we  are  all  in  search  of  a  bank  account;  and  many  of  us 
have  to  do  some  sharp  angling." 

"  My  sister-in-law  angled  very  successfully." 

"  So  she  did,  if  you  will  put  it  so.  And  she  did  not  land 
her  last  chance;  she  might  have  married  as  wealthy  a  man  as 
Mr.  Warburton,  or  as  handsome  a  man  as  his  brother.  But 
then,"  with  a  provoking  little  gesture  of  disdain,  "  Leslie  and 
I  never  did  admire  handsome  men." 


"A  FALSE  MOVE  IN  THE  GAME.'  81 

There  was  just  a  shade  of  annoyance  in  the  voice  that  an- 
swered her: 

"  Pray  go  on,  Miss  French ;  doubtless  yourself  and  Mrs. 
Warburton  have  other  tastes  in  common." 

"So  we  have,"  retorted  the  girl,  rising  and  standing 
directly  before  him,  "but  I  won't  favor  you  with  a  list  of 
them.  You  don't  like  Leslie,  and  I  do;  but  let  me  tell  you, 
Mr.  Alan  Warburton,  if  the  day  ever  comes  when  you 
know  Leslie  Warburton  as  I  know  her,  you  will  go  down  in- 
to'the  dust,  ashamed  that  you  have  so  misjudged,  so  wronged, 
so  slandered  one  who  is  as  high  as  the  stars  above  you.  And 
now  I  am  going  to  join  the  dancers;  you  can  come — or 
stay." 

The  last  words  were  flung  at  him  over  her  shoulder,  and 
before  he  could  rise  to  follow,  she  had  vanished  in  the  throng 
that  was  surging  to  and  fro  without  the  alcove. 

He  starts  forward  as  if  about  to  pursue  her,  and  then  sinks 
back  upon  the  couch. 

"  I  won't  be  a  greater  fool  than  nature  made  me,"  he  mutters 
in  scornful  self-contempt.  "  If  I  go,  she'll  flirt  outrageously 
under  my  very  nose;  if  I  stay — she'll  flirt  all  the  same,  of 
course.  Ah!  if  a  man  would  have  a  foretaste  of  purgatory 
let  him  live  under  the  same  roof  with  the  woman  he  loves  and 
the  woman  lie  hates!" 

A  shadow  conies  between  his  vision  and  the  gleam  of  light 
from  without,  and,  lifting  his  eyes,  he  encounters  two  steady 
orbs  gazing  out  from  behind  a  yellow  mask. 

"  Ah !"  He  half  rises  again,  then  sinks  back  and  motions 
the  mask  to  the  seat  beside  him. 

"  I  recognize  your  costume,"  he  says,  as  the  British  officer 

seats  himself.     "  How  long  since  you  came  ?" 

6 


82  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  Only  a  few  moments.  I  have  been  waiting  lor  your  in- 
terview with  the  lady  to  end." 

"Ah!"  with  an  air  of  abstraction ;  then,  recalling  himself: 
"Do  you  know  the  nature  of  the  work  required  of  you?" 

Under  his  mask,  Van  Verhet's  face  flamed  and  he  bit  his 
lip  with  vexation.  This  man  in  black  and  scarlet,  this  aristo- 
crat, addressed  him,  not  as  one  nuiu  to  another,  but  loftily  as 
a  king  to  a  subject.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  annoyance  in 
his  voice  as  he  replied : 

"  Um — I  suppose  so.  Delicate  bit  of  a  shadowing,  I  was 
told ;  no  particulars  given." 

"  There  need  be  no  particulars.  I  will  point  you  out  the 
person  to  be  shadowed.  I  want  you  to  see  her,  and  be  your- 
self unseen.  You  are  simply  to  discover, — find  out  where  !*l.c 
goes,  who  she  sees,  what  she  does.  Don't  disturb  yourself 
about  motives ;  I  only  want  the  facts" 

"  Ah  !"  thought  Van  Vernet ;  "  it's  a  she,  then."  Aloud,  he 
said  :  "  You  have  not  given  the  lady's  name  ?" 

"  You  would  find  it  out,  of  course  ?" 

"  Of  course  ;  necessarily." 

"  The  lady  is  my — is  Mrs.  Warburton,  the  mistress  of  the 
house." 

"  Ah  !"  thought  the  detective;  "  the  old  Turk  wants  me  to 
shadow  his  wife !" 

By  a  very  natural  blunder  he  had  fancied  himself  in  com- 
munication with  Archibald,  instead  of  Alan,  Warburton. 

"  Have  you  any  suspicions  ?  Can  you  give  me  any  hint 
upon  which  to  act?"  he  asked. 

"  I  might  say  this  much,"  ventured  Alan,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation  :  "The  lady  has  made,  I  believe,  a  mercenary  mar- 
rjage  and  she  is  hiding  something  from  her  husband  and 
frieude." 


"A  FALSE  MOVE  IN  THE  GAME."  83 

u  I  see,"  said  Vernet.  And  then,  laughing  inwardly,  he 
thought:  "A  case  of  jealousy!" 

In  a  few  words  Alan  Warburton  described  to  Vernet  the 
"Sunlight,"  costume  worn  by  Leslie,  and  then  they  separated, 
Vernet  going,  not  in  search  of  "  Sunlight,"  but  of  the  Goddess 
of  Liberty. 

What  he  found  was  this  : 

In  the  almost  deserted  music  room  stood  the  Goddess  of 
Liberty,  gazing  down  into  the  face  of  a  woman  in  the  robes  of 
Sunlight,  and  both  of  them  engaged  in  earnest  conversation. 

He  watched  them  until  he  saw  the  Goddess  lift  the  hand  of 
Sunlight  with  a  gesture  of  graceful  reverence,  bow  over  it,  and 
turn  away.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  place  where  he  had  left 
his  patron.  He  found  the  object  of  his  quest  still  seated  in 
the  alcove,  alone  and  absorbed  in  thought. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  intruding  upon  your  solitude," 
began  the  detective  hastily,  at  the  same  time  seating  himself 
close  beside  Alan ;  "  but  there  is  a  lady  here  whose  conduct  is, 
to  say  the  least,  mysterious.  As  a  detective,  it  becomes  my 
duty  to  look  after  her  a  little,  to  see  that  she  does  not  leave 
this  house  until  1  can  follow  her" 

"  Well  ?"  with  marked  indifference  in  his  tone. 

(t  If  she  could  be  detained,"  went  on  Vernet,  "by — say,  by 
keeping  some  one  constantly  beside  her,  so  that  she  cannot 
leave  the  house  without  being  observed — •" 

Alan  Warburton  threw  back  his  head. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said  ,  "  but  I  object  to  thus  persecuting  a 
lady,  and  a  guest." 

"  But  if  I  tell  you  that  this  lady  is  a  man  in  silken  petti- 
coats?" 

"Whatl" 


84  DANGEEOUS  GROUND. 

"  And  that  he  seems  on  very  free  and  friendly  terms  with 
your  wife" 

"  With  my  wi— " 

Alan  Warburton  stopped  short  and  looked  sharply  at  the 
eyes  gazing  out  from  behind  the  yellow  mask. 

Did  this  detective  think  himself  conversing  with  Archi- 
bald? If  so — well,  what  then?  He  shrank  from  anything 
like  familiarity  with  this  man  before  him.  Why  not  leave 
the  mistake  as  it  stood  ?  There  could  be  no  harm  in  it,  and  he, 
Alan,  would  thus  be  free  from  future  annoyance. 

"  I  will  not  remove  my  mask,"  thought  Alan.  "  He  is  not 
likely  to  see  Archibald,  and  no  harm  can  come  of  it.  In  fact 
it  will  be  better  -so.  It  would  seem  more  natural  for  him  to 
be  investigating  his  wife's  secrets  than  for  me." 

So  the  mistake  was  not  corrected — the  mistake  that  was  al- 
most providential  for  Alan  Warburton,  but  that  proved  a 
very  false  move  in  the  game  that  Van  Vernet  was  about  to 
play. 

There  was  but  one  flaw  in  the  plan  of  the  proposed  incog- 
nito. 

Alan's  voice  was  a  peculiarly  mellow  tenor,  and  Van  Ver- 
net never  forgot  a  voice  once  heard. 

"  Did  you  say  that  this  disguised  person  knows — Mrs. 
Warburton?" 

"I  did." 

"Who  is  the  fellow,  and  what  disguise  does  he  wrear?" 

"I  am  unable  to  give  his  name.  He  is  costumed  as  the 
Goddess  ot  Liberty." 

"Oh!" 

Van  Vernet  had  his  own  reasons  for  withholding  Richard 
Stanhope's  name. 


I  AM  YOUR  SHADOW."  85 

"So!"  he  thought,  while  he  waited  for  Alan's  next  words. 
"I'll  spoil  your  plans  for  this  night,  Dick  Stanhope!  I 
wonder  how  our  Chief  will  like  to  hear  that  ' Stanhope  the  re- 
liable/ neglects  his  duty  to  go  masquerading  in  petticoats,  the 
better  to  make  love  to  another  man's  wife." 

For  Van  Vernet,  judging  Stanhope  as  a  man  of  the  world 
judges  men,  had  leaped  to  the  hasty,  but  natural,  conclusion, 
that  his  masquerade  in  the  garb  of  the  mother  of  his  country, 
was  in  the  character  of  a  lover. 

"Vernet,"  said  Alan  at  last,  "you  are  a  clever  fellow!  Let 
me  see;  there  are  half  a  dozen  young  men  here  who  are  ripe 
for  novelty — set  the  whisper  afloat  that  behind  that  blue  and 
white  mask  is  concealed  a  beautiful  and  mysterious  intruder, 
and  they  will  hang  like  leeches  about  her,  hoping  to  discover 
her  identity,  or  see  her  unmask." 

"  It's  a  capital  plan!"  cried  Vernet,  "and  it  can't  be  put 
into  execution  too  soon." 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  I  AM  YOUR  SHADOW." 

It  is  not  a  pleasing  task  to  Alan  Warburton,  but,  spurred 
on  by  Vernet,  and  acting  according  to  his  suggestions,  it  is 
undertaken  and  accomplished.  Within  twenty  minutes,  two 
gay,  fun-loving  young  fellows,  one  h;ibi:ed  in  the  garb  of  a 
Celestial,  the  other  dressed  as  aTroubador,  are  hastening  from 
room  to  room  in  search  of  the  mysterious  Goddess  of  Liberty. 

"  Who  was  the  Mask  that  posted  us  about  this  mysterious 


86  DANGEROtJS  GROUND. 

lady  ?"  queries  the  Celestial,  as  he  lifts  a  portierie  for  his  com- 
rade to  pass. 

"  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  it  was  Warburton." 

"Isn't  that  a  queer  move  for  His  Dignity?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  Presuming  the  fair  Mystery  to  be 
an  intruder,  he  may  think  it  the  easiest  way  of  putting  her  to 
rout.  At  any  rate  there's  a  little  spice  in  it." 

And  there  is  spice  in  it.  Before  the  evening  closes,  the 
festive  Celestial  is  willing  to  vote  this  meeting  with  a  veiled 
mystery  an  occasion  full  of  flavor,  and  worthy  to  be  remem- 
bered. 

Leaving  the  pair  in  full-chase  after  the  luckless,  petticoat- 
encumbered  Stanhope,  we  follow  Van  Vernet,  who,  having 
set  tli is  trap  for  the  feet  of  his  unconscious  comrade,  is  about 
to  play  his  next  card. 

Gliding  among  the  maskers,  he  makes  his  way  to  a  side  en- 
trance, and  passing  the  liveried  servant  on  guard  at  the  door 
with  a  careless  jest,  he  leaves  the  house,  and  hastens  where,  a 
few  rods  distant,  a  solitary  figure  is  standing. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here,  Harvey?"  he  asks  hur- 
riedly, but  with  noticeable  nffiibility. 

"  About  half  an  hour." 

"  Good ;  now  listen,  for  you  are  to  begin  your  business. 
Throw  on  that  domino  and  follow  me;  the  servants  have 
seen  me  in  conversation  with  the  master  of  the  house  and  they 
will  not  require  your  credentials.  Keep  near  me,  and  follow  me 
to  the  dressing-rooms;  by-and-by  we  will  exchange  costumes 
there,  after  which,  you  will  personate  me." 

"But,—" 

"There  will  be  no  trouble;  just  mingle  with  the  throng, 
saying  nothing  to  anyone.  No  one  will  address  you  who 


"I  AM  YOUR  SHADOW.*'  8? 

could  doubt  your  identity ;  I  will  arrange  all  that.  You 
comprehend  ?" 

"  I  think  so.  You  are  wanted,  or  you  want  to  be,  in  two 
places  at  once.  Tins  being  the  least  important,  you  place  me 
here  as  figure  -  head,  while  you  fill  the  bill  at  the  other  place." 

"  You  have  grasped  the  situation,  Harvey.  Let  us  go 
in,  and  be  sure  you  do  justice,  in  my  stead,  to  the  banquet — 
and  the  Warburton  champagne." 

Van  Vernet  had  planned  well.  Knowing  the  importance 
of  the  Raid  in  hand  for  that  night,  he  had  determined  to  be 
present  and  share  with  Stanhope  the  honors  of  the  occasion, 
while  he  seemed  to  be  devoting  all  his  energies  to  the  solution 
of  the  mystery  that  was  evidently  troubling  his  wealthy  patron, 
the  master  of  Warburton  place. 

Vernet  was  a  man  of  many  resources,  and  trying,  indeed, 
must  be  the  situation  which  his  fertile  brain  could  not  master. 

Having  successfully  introduced  his  double  into  the  house, 
he  made  his  way,  once  more,  to  the  side  of  his  patron,  and, 
drawing  him  away  from  the  vicinity  of  possible  listeners,  said  : 

"  Mr.  Warburton,  if  you  have  anything  further  to  say  to 
me,  please  make  use  of  the  present  moment.  After  this  it  will 
be  best  for  us  to  hold  no  further  conversation  to-night." 

Alan  Warburton  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  detective  with 
a  cold,  scrutinizing  stare. 

"Why  such  caution  ?" 

"  Because  it  seems  to  me  necessary ;  and,  if  I  may  be  per- 
mitted to  suggest,  you  may  make  some  slight  discoveries  by 
keeping  an  eye,  more  or  less,  upon  Mrs.  Warburton." 

With  these  words  Van  Vernet  turns  upon  his  heel,  and 
strides  away  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  can  do  all  that  he 
essays. 


88  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"He  is  cool  to  the  verge  of  impudence !"  mutters  Alan,  as 
he  gazes  after  the  receding  figure  in  the  British  uniform.  "  But 
I  will  act  upon  his  advice ;  I  irill  watch  Mrs.  "VVarburton." 

It  is  some  moments  before  he  catches  sight  of  her  glimmer- 
ing robes, and  then  he  sees  them  receding,  gliding  swiftly,  and, 
as  he  thinks,  with  a  nervous,  hurried  movement  unusual  to 
his  stately  sister-in-law. 

She  is  going  through  the  drawing-room,  away  from  the 
dancers,  and  he  hastens  after,  wondering  a  little  as  to  her 
destination. 

From  a  flower-adorned  recess,  a  fairy  form  springs  out, 
interrupting  the  lady  in  the  glimmering  robes. 

"Mamma!"  cries  little  Daisy,  "oh  Mamma,  I  have  found 
Mother  Goose — real,  live  Mother  Goose !" 

And  she  points  with  childish  delight  to  a  quaintly  dressed 
personation  of  that  old  woman  of  nursery  fame,  who  sits  within 
the  alcove,  leaning  upon  her  oaken  staff,  and  peering  out  from 
beneath  the  broad  frill  of  her  cap,  her  gaze  eagerly  following 
the  movements  of  the  animated  child. 

"  Oh  Mamma  !"  continues  the  little  one,  "  can't  I  stay  with 
Mother  Goose?  Millie  says  I  must  go  to  bed." 

At  another  time  Leslie  Warburton  would  have  listened 
more  attentively,  have  answered  more  thoughtfully,  and  have 
noted  more  closely  the  manner  of  guest  that  was  thus  absorb- 
ing the  attention  of  the  little  one.  Now  she  only  says 
hurriedly : 

"  Yes,  yes,  Daisy ;  you  may  stay  a  little  longer, — only," 
with  a  hasty  glance  toward  the  alcove,  "you  must  not  trouble 
the  lady  too  much." 

"The  lady  wants  me,  mamma." 

"Then  go,  dear." 


"I  AM  YOUR  SHADOW."  89 

And  Leslie  gathers  up  her  glimmering  train  and  hastens  on 
without  once  glancing  backward. 

Pausing  a  few  paces  behind  her,  Alan  Warburton  has  noted 
each  word  that  has  passed  between  the  lady  and  the  child. 
And  now,  as  the  little  one  bounds  back  to  Mother  Goose,  who 
receives  her  with  evident  pleasure,  he  moves  on,  still  follow- 
ing Leslie. 

She  glides  past  the  dancers,  through  the  drawing  rooms, 
across  the  music  room,  and  then,  giving  a  hasty  glance  at  the 
few  who  linger  there,  she  pulls  aside  a  silken  curtain,  and 
looks  into  the  library.  The  lights  are  toned  to  the  softness 
of  moonlight;  there  is  silence  there,  and  solitude. 

With  a  long,  weary  sigh,  Leslie  enters  the  library  and  lets 
the  curtain  fall  behind  her. 

Alan  Warburton  pauses,  hesitates  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
seeing  that  the  little  group  of  maskers  near  him  seem  wholly 
absorbed  in  their  own  merriment,  he  moves  boldly  forward, 
parts  the  curtain  a  little  way,  and  peers  within. 

He  sees  a  woman  wearing  the  garments  of  Sunlight  and 
the  face  of  despair.  She  has  torn  off  her  mask,  and  it  lies  on 
the  floor  at  her  feet.  In  her  hand  is  a  crumpled  scrap  of  pa- 
per, and,  as  she  holds  it  nearer  the  light  and  reads  what  is 
written  thereon,  a  low  moan  escapes  her  lips. 

"Again!"  she  murmurs;  "how  can  I  obey  them? — and 
yet  I  must  go."     Then,  suddenly,  a  light  of  fierce  resolve 
flames  in  her  eyes.  "  I  will  go,"  she  says,  speaking  aloud  in  her 
self-forgetfulness ;  "  I  will  go, — but  it  shall  be  for  the  last  timel" 
She  thrusts  the  crumpled  bit  of  paper  into  her  bosom,  goes 
to  the  window  and  looks  out.     Then  she  crosses  to  a  door  op- 
posite the  curtained  entrance,  opens  it  softly,  and  glides  away. 
In  another  moment,  Alan  Warburton  is  in  the  library. 


90  DANGEROUS  GROtJND. 

Tearing  off  the  black  and  scarlet  domino  he  flings  it  into  a 
corner,  and,  glancing  down  at  his  nautical  costume  mutters: 

"  Sailors  of  this  description  are  not  uncommon.  Wherever 
she  goes,  I  can  follow  her — in  this." 

Ten  minutes  later,  while  Leslie  Warburton's  guests  are 
dancing  and  making  merry,  Leslie  Warburton,  with  sombre 
garments  replacing  the  robes  of  Sunlight,  glides  stealthily 
out  from  her  stately  home,  and  creeps  like  a  hunted  creature 
through  the  darkness  and  away! 

But  not  alone.  Silently,  with  the  tread  of  an  Indian,  a  man 
follows  after ;  a  man  in  the  garments  of  a  sailor,  MTho  pulls 
a  glazed  cap  low  down  across  his  eyes,  and  mutters  as  he 
goes: 

"So,  Madam  Intrigue,  Van  Vernet  advised  me  well. 
Glide  on,  plotter ;  from  this  moment  until  I  shall  have  un- 
masked you,  /  am  your  shadow  !" 


CHAPTER  XL 

"DEAR  MRS  FOLLINSBEE." 

While  the  previously  related  scenes  of  this  fateful  night 
are  transpiring  Richard  Stanhope  .finds  his  silken-trained 
disguise  a  snare  in  which  his  own  feet  become  entangled,  both 
literally  and  figuratively. 

Moving  with  slow  and  stately  steps  through  the  vista  of 
splendid  rooms,  taking  note  of  all  that  he  sees  from  behind 
his  white  and  blue  mask,  he  suddenly  becomes  the  object  of  too 
much  attention.  A  dashing  Troubador  presents  himself,  and 


"Silently,  with  the  tread  of  an  Indian,  a  man  follows  after;  a  man  in 
the  garments  of  a  sailor." — page  90. 

91 


92  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

will  not  be  denied  the  pleasure  of  a  waltz  with  "the  stately 
and  graceful  Miss  Columbia." 

The  detective's  feet  are  encased  in  satin  shoes  that,  if  not 
small,  are  at  least  shapely.  He  has  yet  nearly  an  hour  to 
spare  to  the  masquerade,  and  his  actual  business  is  done. 
Why  not  yield  to  the  temptation  ?  He  dances  with  the  grace 
and  abandon  of  the  true  music  worshipper;  he  loves  bright- 
ness and  gayety,  laughter  and  all  sweet  sounds ;  above  all,  he 
takes  such  delight  in  a  jest  as  only  healthy  natures  can. 

"  It  would  be  a  pity  to  disappoint  such  a  pretty  Troubador," 
muses  Richard  while  he  seems  to  hesitate;  "  he  may  never 
have  another  opportunity  to  dance  with  a  lady  like  me." 

And  then,  bowing  a  stately  consent,  he  moves  away  on  the 
arm  of  the  Troubador,  who,  chuckling  at  his  success,  mentally 
resolves  to  make  a  good  impression  on  this  mysterious  unin- 
vited lady. 

Van  Vernet's  plot  works  famously.  The  Troubador  is  en- 
chanted with  the  dancing  of  the  mysterious  Goddess,  who  looks 
at  him  with  the  handsomest,  most  languid  and  melting  of 
brown,  brown  eyes,  letting  these  orbs  speak  volumes,  but  say- 
ing never  a  word.  And  when  his  fellow-plotter  claims  the 
next  dance,  he  yields  his  place  reluctantly,  and  sees  the  waist 
of  the  Goddess  encircled  by  the  arm  of  the  Celestial,  with  a 
sigh  of  regret. 

Richard  Stanhope,  now  fully  given  over  to  the  spirit  of 
mischief,  leans  confidingly  upon  the  arm  of  this  second  admirer, 
looking  unutterable  things  with  his  big  brown  eyes. 

They  hover  about  him  after  this  second  dance,  and  he  dances 
again  with  each.  If  the  Troubador  is  overflowing  with  flattery, 
the  Celestial  is  more  obsequious  still.  Stanhope  finds  the 
moments  flying,  and  the  attention  of  the  two  gallants  cease  to 


"DEAR  MRS.  FOLLINSBEE."  93 

amuse,  and  begin  to  annoy.  In  vain  he  tries  to  shake  them 
off.  If  oiie  goes,  the  other  remains. 

After  many  futile  efforts  to  free  himself  from  his  tor- 
mentors, he  sees  Mr.  Follingsbee  approach,  and  beckons  him 
forward  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

The  two  maskers,  recognizing  Uncle  Sam  as  a  fitting  com- 
panion for  Miss  Columbia,  reluctantly  yield  their  ground  and 
withdraw. 

"Have  those  fellows  been  pestering  you?"  queries  the 
lawyer,  with  a  laugh. 

"Only  as  they  bade  fair  to  prove  a  hindrance,"  with  an  an- 
swering chuckle.  "They're  such  nice  little  lady  killers:  but 
I  must  get  away  from  this  in  a  very  few  minutes.  My  dis- 
guise has  been  very  successful." 

"  I  should  think  so !  Why,  my  boy,  half  the  people  here, 
at  least  those  who  have  recognized  me  through  my  costume, 
think  you  are — ha!  ha! — my  wife!" 

"So  much  the  better." 

"  Why,  little  Winnie  French — she  found  me  out  at  once — 
has  been  looking  all  through  the  card  rooms  for  "Dear  Mrs. 
Follingsbee."  And  the  jolly  lawyer  laughs  anew. 

"  Mr.  Follingsbee," — Stanhope  has  ceased  to  jest,  and  speaks 
with  his  usual  business  brusqueness — "Mrs.  Warburton,  I 
don't  know  for  what  reason,  wished  to  be  informed  when  1 
left  the  house.  Will  you  tell  her  I  am  about  to  go,  and  that 
I  will  let  her  hear  from  me  further  through  you?  I  will  go 
up  to  the  dressing  room  floor,  and  wait  in  the  boudoir  until 
you  have  seen  her."  ' 

The  boudoir  opening  upon  the  ladies'  dressing  rooms,  is  un- 
tenanted.  But  from  the  inner  room,  Stanhope  catches  the  hum 
of  feminine  voices,  and  in  a  moment  a  quartette  of  ladies  come 


94  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

forth,  adjusting  their  masks  as  they  move  toward  the  stair- 
way. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  little  exclamation  of  delight,  and  our 
detective,  standing  near  the  open  window,  with  his  face 
turned  from  the  group,  feels  himself  clasped  by  a  pair  of  pretty 
dimpled  arras,  while  a  gay  voice  says  in  his  ear: 

"  Oh  !  you  dear  old  thing !  Have  I  found  you  at  last? 
Follingsbee,  you  look  stunning  in  that  costume.  Oh ! — "  as 
Stanhope  draws  back  with  a  deprecating  g°sture — "  you  need'nt 
deny  your  identity :  is'nt  Mr.  Follingsbee  here  as  Uncle  Sam? 
I  found  him  out  at  once,  and  didn't  Leslie  and  I  see  you  en- 
ter together?" 

Stanhope  quakes  inwardly,  and  the  perspiration  starts  out 
under  his  mask.  It  is  very  delightful,  under  most  circum- 
stances, to  be  embraced  by  a  pair  of  soft  feminine  arms,  but 
just  now  it  is  very  embarrassing  and — very  ridiculous. 

Divided  between  his  desire  to  laugh  and  his  wish  to  run 
away,  the  detective  stands  hesitating,  while  Winnie  French, 
for  she  it  is,  begins  a  critical  examination  of  his  costume. 

"Don't  you  think  the  dress  muffles  your  figure  a  little  too 
much,  Follingsbee?  If  it  were  snugger  here," — giving  him 
a  little  poke  underneath  his  elbows, — "and  not  so  straight 
from  the  shoulders.  Why  didn't  you  shorten  it  in  front,  and 
wear  pointed  shoes?" 

And  she  seizes  the  flowing  drapery,  and  draws  it  back  to 
illustrate  her  suggestion. 

Again  Stanhope  recoils  with  a  gesture  which  the  gay  girl 
misinterprets,  and,  quite  ignoring  the  persistent  silence  of  the 
supposed  Mrs.  Follingsbee,  she  chatters  on  : 

"I  hope  you  don't  resent  my  criticisms,  Follingsbee;  you've 
picked  meto  pieces  often  enough.  Or  are  you  still  vexed  because 


"Don't  you  think  your  dress  muffles  your  figure  a  little  too  much, 
Follingsbee?"— page  94. 

95 


96  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

I  won't  fall  in  love  with  your  favorite  Alan  ?  There,  now," — 
as  Stanhope,  grown  desperate,  seems  about  to  speak, — "  I  know 
just  what  you  want  to  say,  and  you  need  not  say  it.  Fol- 
lingsbee,"  lowering  her  voice  to  a  more  confidential  tone,  "  if 
I  ever  had  a  scrap  of  a  notion  of  that  sort,  I  have  been  cured 
of  it  since  I  came  into  this  house  to  live.  Oh  !  I  know  he's 
your  prime  favorite,  but  you  can't  tell  me  anything  about  Alan; 
I've  got  him  all  catalogued  on  my  ten  fingers.  Here  he  is 
pro  and  con;  pro's  your  idea  of  him,  you  know.  You  say  he  is 
rich.  Well,  that's  something  in  these  days !  He's  handsome. 
Bah  !  a  man  has  no  business  with  beauty  ;  it's  woman's  special 
prerogative.  He  came  of  a  splendid  blue-blooded  family. 
Fudge !  American  aristocracy  is  American  rubbish.  He's 
talented.  Well,  that's  only  an  accident  for  which  he  deserves 
no  credit.  He's  thoroughly  upright  and  honorable.  Well, 
he's  too  bolt  upright  for  me." 

"So,"  murmurs  Stanhope  to  his  inner  consciousness,  "I 
am  making  a  point  in  personal  history,  but — it's  a  tight  place 
for  me  !"  And  as  Winnie's  arms  give  him  a  little  hug,  while 
she  pauses  to  take  breath,  he  feels  tempted  to  retort  in  kind. 

"Now,  then,"  resumes  Winnie,  absorbed  in  her  topic;  and 
releasing  her  victim  to  check  off  her  "  cons"  on  the  pretty 
right  hand ;  "  here's  my  opinion  of  Mr.  Warburton.  He's 
proud,  ridiculously  proud.  He  worships  his  name,  if  not 
himself.  He  is  suspicious,  uncharitable,  unforgiving.  He's 
hard-hearted.  If  Leslie  were  not  an  angel  she  would  hate  him 
utterly.  He  treats  her  with  a  lofty  politeness,  a  polished  in- 
difference, impossible  to  resent  and  horrible  to  endure,- — and 
all  because  he  chooses  to  believe  that  she  has  tarnished  the  great 
Warburton  name,  by  taking  it  for  love  of  the  Warburton 
fortune  instead  of  the  race," 


97 

Up  from  the  ball-room  floats  the  first  strains  of  a  delicious 
waltz.  Winnie  stops,  starts,  and  turns  toward  the  door. 

"That's  my  favorite  waltz,  and  I'm  engaged  to  Charlie 
Furbish — he  dances  like  an  angel.  Follingsbee,  bye,  bye!'' 

She  flits  to  the  mirror,  gives  two  or  three  dainty  touches  to 
her  coquettish  costume,  tosses  a  kiss  from  her  finger  tips,  and 
is  gone. 

"Thank  Heaven,"  mutters  Stanhope.  "  I  consider  that  the 
narrowest  escape  of  my  life !  What  a  little  witch  it  is,  and 
pretty,  I'll  wager." 

He  draws  from  beneath  his  flowing  robe  a  tiny  watch  such 
as  ladies  carry,  and  consults  its  jewelled  face. 

"My  time  is  up!"  he  ejaculates.  " Twenty  minutes  delay, 
now,  will  ruin  my  Raid.  Ah !  here's  Follingsbee."  And  he 
moves  forward  at  the  sound  of  an  approaching  step. 

But  it  is  not  Follingsbee  who  appears  upon  the  threshold. 
It  is,  instead,  Stanhope's  too-obsequious,  too-attentive  admirer, 
the  Celestial,  who  has  voted  the  prospect  of  a  flirtation  with  a 
mysterious  mask,  a  thing  of  spice. 


CHAPTER  XII. 
A  "  'MELLICAN  LADY'S"  LITTLE  TRICK. 

In  such  an  emergency,  when  every  moment  has  its  value, 
to  think  is  to  act  with  Richard  Stanhope.  And  time  just  now 
is  very  precious  to  him. 

This  importunate  fellow  is  determined  to  solve  the  mystery 

7 


98  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

of  his  identity,  to  see  him  unmask.  Ten  minutes  spent  in  an 
attempt  to  evade  him  will  be  moments  of  fate  for  the  ambi- 
tious detective. 

And,  for  the  sake  of  his  patroness,  he  cannot  leave  the  house 
at  the  risk  of  being  followed.  This  difficulty  must  be  over- 
come and  at  once. 

These  thoughts  flash  through  his  mind  as  if  by  electricity ; 
and  then,  as  the  Celestial  approaches,  he  turns  languidly  to- 
ward the  open  window  and  rests  his  head^against  the  case- 
ment, as  if  in  utter  weariness. 

"'Mellican  lady  slick?"  queries  the  masker  solicitously; 
"'Mellican  lady  walm?  Ching  Ling  flannee,  flannee." 

And  raising  his  Japanese  fan,  he  begins  to  ply  it  vigor- 
ously. 

Mentally  confiding  "  Ching  Ling,"  to  a  region  where  fans 
are  needed  and  are  not,  Stanhope  sways,  as  if  about  to  faint, 
and  motions  toward  a  reclining  chair. 

The  mask  propels  it  close  to  the  window,  and  the  detective 
.sinks  into  it,  with  a  long  drawn  sigh. 

Then,  plying  his  fan  with  renewed  vigor,  the  Celestial  mur- 
murs tenderly : 

"'Mellican  lady  slick?" 

"  Confound  you,"  thinks  Stanhope,  "  I  will  try  and  be  too 
slick  for  you."  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  utters  a  word  for 
the  Celestial's  hearing.  Moving  his  head  restlessly  he  articu- 
lates, feebly : 

"  The  heat— I  feel— faint !"  Then,  half  rising  from  the 
chair,  seeming  to  make  a  last  effort,  he  reels  and  murmuring : 
"Water — water,"  sinks  back  presenting  the  appearance  of  ut- 
ter lifelessness. 

"  Water !"    The  Celestial,  utterly  deceived,  drops  the  %i 


A  "'MELLICAN  LADY'S"  LITTLE  TRICK.  99 

and  his  dialect  at  the  same  moment,  and  muttering :  "  She  has 
fainted  !"  springs  to  the  door. 

It  is  just  what  Stanhope  had  hoped  for.  When  the  Celes- 
tial returns  with  the  water,  the  fainting  lady  will  have  disap- 
peared. 

But  Fate  seems  to  have  set  her  face  against  Stanhope.  The 
Celestial  does  not  go.  At  the  very  door  he  encounters  a  ser- 
vant, none  other  than  the  girl,  Millie,  who,  having  for  some 
time  lost  sight  of  little  Daisy,  is  now  wandering  from  room 
to  room  in  quest  of  the  child. 

"  Girl,"  calls  the  masker  authoritively,  "  get  some  water 
quick;  a  lady  has  fainted." 

Uttering  a  startled:  "  Oh,  my  !"  Millie  skurries  away,  and 
the  Celestial  returns  to  the  side  of  the  detective,  who  seems 
just  now  to  be  playing  a  losing  game. 

But  it  is  only  seeming.  The  case,  grown  desperate,  requires 
a  desperate  remedy,  and  the  Goddess  of  Liberty  resolves  to  do 
what,  probably,  no  "  'Mellican  Lady"  ever  did  before. 

Through  his  drooping  eyelids  he  notes  the  approach  of  the 
Celestial,  sees  him  fling  aside  his  fan  to  bend  above  him,  and 
realizes  the  fact  that  he  is  about  to  be  unmasked. 

The  Celestial  bends  nearer  still.  His  hands  touch  the 
draped  head,  searching  for  the  secret  that  releases  the  tightly 
secured  mask.  It  is  a  sentimental  picture,  but  suddenly  the 
scene  changes.  Sentiment  is  put  to  rout,  and  absurdity  reigns. 
With  indescribable  swiftness,  the  body  of  the  Goddess  darts 
forward,  and  the  head  conies  in  sudden  contact  with  the 
stomach  of  the  too-devoted  Celestial,  who  goes  down  upon  the 
floor  in  a  state  of  collapse,  while  Stanhope,  bounding  to  his 
feet  and  gathering  up  his  trailing  draperies,  springs  through 
the  open  window! 


100  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

When  Millie  returns  with  water  and  other  restoratives,  she 
finds  only  a  disarranged  masker  sitting  dolefully  upon  the 
floor,  with  one  hand  pressed  against  his  stomach  and  the  other 
supporting  his  head;  still  too  much  dazed  and  bewildered  to 
know  just  how  he  came  there. 

When  he  has  finally  recovered  sufficiently  to  be  able  to  give 
a  shrewd  guess  as  to  the  nature  of  the  calamity  that  so  sud- 
denly overcame  him,  he  is  wise  enough  to  see  that  the  victory 
sits  perched  on  the  banner  of  the  vanished  Goddess,  and  to  retire 
from  the  field  permanently  silent  upon  the  subject  of  "spicy 
flirtations"  and  mysterious  ladies. 

Meantime,  Stanhope  having  alighted,  with  no  particular 
damage  to  himself  or  his  drapery,  upon  a  balcony  which  runs 
half  the  length  of  the  house,  is  creeping  silently  along  that 
convenient  causeway  toward  the  gentlemen's  dressing-room, 
situated  at  its  extreme  end. 

Foreseeing  some  possible  difficulty  in  leaving  the  house  un- 
noticed while  attired  in  so  conspicuous  a  costume,  the  Goddess 
had  come  prepared  with  a  long  black  domino,  which  had  been 
confided  to  Mr*  Follingsbee,  who,  at  the  proper  moment,  was 
to  fetch  it  from  the  gentlemen's  dressing-room,  array  Stanhope 
in  its  sombre  folds,  and  then  see  him  from  the  house,  and 
safely  established  in  the  carriage  which  the  detective  had  ar- 
ranged to  have  in  waiting  to  convey  him  to  the  scene  of  the 
Raid. 

Owing  to  his  little  encounter  with  the  Celestial,  Stanhope 
knows  himself  cut  off  from  communication  with  Mr.  Follings- 
bee, and  he  now  creeps  toward  the  dressing-room  wholly  intent 
upon  securing  the  domino  and  quitting  the  house  in  the  quick- 
est manner  possible. 

As  he  approaches  the  window,  however,  he  realizes  that 
there  is  another  lion  in  his  path. 


"Stanhope,  bounding  to  his  feet,  springs  through  the  open  window" 
page  99. 

101 


102  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

The  room  is  already  occupied ;  he  hears  two  voices  speak- 
ing in  guarded  tones. 

"  Be  quick,  Harvey ;  some  one  may  come  in  a  moment." 

"  I  have  locked  the  door." 

"  But  it  must  be  opened  at  the  first  knock.  There  must 
be  no  appearance  of  mystery,  no  room  for  suspicion,  Harvey." 

At  the  sound  of  a  most  familiar  voice,  Richard  Stanhope 
starts,  and  flushes  with  excitement  underneath  his  mask. 
Then  he  presses  close  against  the  window  and  peers  in. 

Two  men  are  rapidly  exchanging  garments  there;  the  one 
doffing  a  uniform  such  as  is  worn  by  an  officerof  Her  Majesty's 
troops,  the  other  passing  over,  in  exchange  for  said  uniform, 
the  suit  of  a  common  policeman. 

With  astonished  eyes  and  bated  breath,  Stanhope  recognizes 
the  two.  Van  Vernet,  his  friend,  and  Harvey,  a  member 
of  the  police  force,  who  is  Vernet's  staunch  admirer  and  chosen 
assistant  when  such  assistance  can  be  of  use. 

How  came  Vernet  at  this  masquerade,  of  all  others?  And 
what  are  they  about  to  do? 

He  is  soon  enlightened,  for  Van  Vernet,  flushed  with  his 
success,  present  and  prospective,  utters  a  low  triumphant  laugh 
as  he  dons  the  policeman's  coat,  and  turns  to  readjust  his  mask. 

"Ah!  Harvey,"  he  says  gayly ;  "if  you  ever  live  to  execute 
as  fine  a  bit  of  strategy  as  I  did  to-night,  you  may  yet  be 
Captain  of  police.  Ha!  ha!  this  most  recent  battle  between 
America  and  England  has  turned  out  badly  for  America — all 
because  she  will  wear  petticoats !" 

America !  England !  petticoats !  Stanhope  can  scarcely  sup- 
press an  exclamation  as  suddenly  light  flashes  upon  his  men- 
tal horizon. 

"  I've  done  a  good  thing  to-night,  Harvey,"  continues  Ver- 


A"'MELLICAN  LADY'S"  LITTLE  TRICK.  103 

net  with  unusual  animation,  "  and  I've  got  the  lead  on  a  sharp 
man.  If  I  can  hold  my  own  to-night,  you'll  never  again  hear 
of  Van  Vernet  as  only  '  one  of  our  best  detectives.'  Is  your 
mask  adjusted  ?  All  right,  then.  Now,  Harvey,  time  presses ; 
there's  a  big  night's  work  before  me.  You  are  sure  you  under- 
stand everything?" 

"  Oh,  perfectly  ;  my  work's  easy  enough." 

"  And  mine  begins  to  be  difficult.  Unlock  the  door,  Har- 
vey, I  must  be  off."  Then  turning  sharply  he  adds,  as  if  it 
were  an  after-thought :  "  By  the  way,  if  you  happen  to  set 
your  eye  on  a  Goddess  of  Liberty,  just  note  her  movements  ; 
I  would  give  something  to  know  when  she  contrives  to  leave 
the  house  and,"  with  a  dry  laugh,  "  and  how" 

In  another  moment  the  dressing-room  is  deserted. 

And  then  Richard  Stanhope  steps  lightly  through  the  win- 
dow. With  rapid  movements  he  singles  out  his  own  dark 
domino,  gathers  his  colored  draperies  close  about  him,  and  flings 
it  over  them,  drawing  the  hood  down  about  his  head,  and  the 
long  folds,  around  his  person.  Then  he  goes  out  from  the 
dressing-rooms,  hurries  down  the  great  stairway,  and  passing 
boldly  out  by  the  main  entrance,  glances  up  and  down  the 
street. 

Only  a  few  paces  away,  a  dark  form  is  hurrying  toward  a 
group  of  carriages  standing  opposite  the  mansion,  and  Stan- 
hope, in  an  instant,  is  gliding  in  the  same  direction.  As  the 
man  places  a  foot  upon  the  step  of  a  carriage  that  has  evi- 
dently awaited  his  coming,  Stanhope  glides  so  near  that  he 
distinctly  hears  the  order,  given  in  Vernet's  low  voice: 

"  To  the  X —  street  police  station.     Drive  fast." 

A  trifle  farther  away  another  carriage,  its  driver  very  alert 
and  expectant,  stands  waiting. 


104  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Having  heard  Vernet's  order,  Stanhope  hurries  to  this  car- 
riage, springs  within,  and  whispers  to  the  driver: 

"The  old  place,  Jim  ;  and  your  quickest  time!" 

Then,  as  the  wheels  rattle  over  the  pavement,  the  horses 
speeding  away  from  this  fashionable  quarter  of  the  city,  a 
strange  transformation  scene  goes  on  within  the  carriage,  which, 
evidently,  has  been  prepared  for  this  purpose.  The  Goddess 
of  Liberty  is  casting  her  robes,  and  long  before  the  carriage 
has  reached  its  destination,  she  has  disappeared,  there  remain- 
ing, in  her  stead,  a  personage  of  fantastic  appearance.  He  is 
literally  clothed  in  rags,  and  plentifully  smeared  with  dirt; 
his  tattered  garments  are  decorated  with  bits  of  tinsel,  and 
scraps  of  bright  color  flutter  from  his  ragged  hat,  and  flaunt 
upon  his  breast;  there  is  a  monstrous  patch  over  his  left  eye 
and  a  mass  of  disfiguring  blotches  covers  his  left  cheek  ;  a 
shock  of  unkempt  tow-colored  hair  bristles  upon  his  head,  and 
his  forehead  and  eyes  are  half  hidden  by  thick  dangling  elf- 
locks. 

If  this  absurd  apparition  bears  not  the  slightest  resemblance 
to  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  it  resembles  still  less  our  friend, 
Richard  Stanhope. 

Suddenly,  and  in  an  obscure  street,  the  carriage  comes  to  a 
halt,  and  as  its  fantastically-attired  occupant  descends  to  the 
ground,  the  first  stroke  of  midnight  sounds  out  upon  the  air. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK. 


One  more  scene  in  this  night's  fateful  masquerade  remains 
to  be  described,  and  then  the  seemingly  separate  threads  of  our 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK.  105 

plot  unite,  and  twine  about  our  central  figures  a  chain  of  Fate. 

While  Van  Vernet  is  setting  snares  for  the  feet  of  his 
rival,  and  while  that  young  man  of  many  resources  is  actively 
engaged  in  disentangling  himself  therefrom, — while  Leslie 
Warburton,  tortured  by  a  secret  which  she  cannot  reveal,  and 
dominated  by  a  power  she  dare  not  disobey,  steals  away  from 
her  stately  home — and  while  Alan  Warburton,  soured  by  sus- 
picion, made  unjust  by  his  own  false  pride,  follows  like  a 
shadow  behind  her — a  cloud  is  descending  upon  the  house  of 
Warburton. 

Sitting  apart  from  the  mirthful  crowd,  quite  unobserved 
and  seemingly  wholly  engrossed  in  themselves,  are  little  Daisy 
Warburton  and  the  quaintly-attired  Mother  Goose,  before 
mentioned. 

It  is  long  past  the  child's  latest  bedtime,  but  her  step-mamma 
has  been  so  entirely  preoccupied,  and  Millie  so  carelessly  ab- 
sorbed in  watching  the  gayeties  of  the  evening,  that  the  little 
one  has  been  overlooked,  and  feels  now  quite  like  her  own 
mistress. 

"Ha!  ha!"  she  laughs  merrily,  leaning,  much  at  her  ease, 
upon  the  knee  of  Mother  Goose;  "  ha  !  ha!  what  nice  funny 
stories  you  tell ;  almost  as  nice  as  my  new  mamma's  stories. 
Only,"  looking  up  with  exquisite  frankness,  "your  voice  is 
not  half  so  nice  as  my  new  mamma's." 

"Because  I'm  an  old  woman,  dearie,"  replies  Mother  Goose, 
a  shade  ol  something  like  disapproval  in  her  tone.  "Do  you 
really  want  to  see  Mother  Hubbard's  dog,  little  girl  ?" 

"  Old  Mother  Hubbard — she  went  to  the  cupboard,"  sings 
Daisy  gleefully.  "  Of  course  I  do,  Mrs.  Goose.  Does  Mother 
Hubbard  look  like  you  ?" 

"A  little." 


106  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"And — you  said  Cinderella's  coach  was  down  near  my  papa's 
gate?" 

"  So  it  is,  dearie;"  Then  looking  cautiously  about  her,  and 
lowering  her  voice  to  a  whisper :  "How  would  you  like  to  ride 
tc  see  Mother  Hubbard  in  Cinderella's  coach,  and  come  right 
back,  you  know,  before  it  turns  into  a  pumpkin  again?" 

The  fair  child  clasps  two  tiny  hands,  and  utters  a  cry  of 
delight. 

"  Oh !  could  we  ?"  she  asks,  breathlessly. 

"Of  course  we  can,  if  you  are  very  quiet  and  do  as  I  bid 
you,  and  if  you  don't  get  afraid." 

"I  don't  get  afraid — not  often,"  replies  the  child,  drawing 
still  closer  to  Mother  Goose,  and  speaking  with  hushed  gravity. 
"When  I  used  to  be  afraid  at  night,  my  mamma,  my  new 
mamma,  you  know,  taught  me  to  say  like  this." 

Clasping  her  hands,  she  sinks  upon  her  knees  and  lifts  her 
face  to  that  which,  behind  its  grotesque  mask,  is  distorted  by 
some  unpleasant  emotion.  And  then  the  childish  voice  lisps 
reverently : 

"  Dear  God,  please  take  care  of  a  little  girl  whose  mamma 
lias  gone  to  Heaven.  Keep  her  from  sin,  and  sickness,  and 
danger.  Make  the  dark  as  safe  as  the  day,  and  don't  let  her 
be  afraid,  for  Jesus'  sake.  Amen." 

Something  like  a  smothered  imprecation  dies  away  in  the 
throat  of  the  listener,  and  then  she  says,  in  honeyed  ac- 
cents: 

"That's  a  very  nice  little  prayer,  and  your  new  mamma  is 
a  very  fine  lady.  When  you  come  back  from  your  ride 
in  Cinderella's  carriage,  you  can  tell  your  new  mamma  all 
about  it." 

"Oh!  how  nice!w 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK.  107 

"  It  will  be  charming.  Come  into  the  conservatory,  dearie. 
I  think  we  can  see  Cinderella's  lamps  from  there." 

With  the  confidence  born  of  childish  innocence,  the  little 
one  places  her  hand  in  that  of  Mother  Goose,  and  is  led 
away. 

The  conservatory  is  all  aglow  with  light  and  color  and  rich 
perfume,  and  it  is  almost  tenantless.  The  broad  low  windows 
are  open,  and  a  narrow  balcony,  adorned  with  tall  vases  and 
hung  with  drooping  vines,  projects  from  them  scarce  three 
feet  from  the  ground. 

Out  upon  this  balcony,  and  close  to  the  railing,  the  child 
follows  the  old  woman  confidently.  Then,  as  she  peers  out 
into  the  night,  she  draws  back. 

"  It's — very — dark,"  she  whispers. 

"  It's  the  light  inside  that  makes  it  seem  so  dark,  dearie. 
Ah!  I  see  a  glimmer  of  Cinderella's  lamp  now  ;  look,  child  !" 

Stooping  quickly,  she  lifts  the  little  one  and  seats  her  upon 
the  railing  of  the  balcony.  Then,  as  the  child,  shading  her 
eyes  with  a  tiny  hand,  attempts  to  peer  out  into  the  darkness, 
something  damp  and  sickening  is  pressed  to  her  face  ;  there  is 
an  odor  in  the  air  not  born  of  the  flowers  within,  and  Daisy 
Warburton,  limp  and  unconscious,  lies  back  in  the  arms  of  her 
enemy. 

In  another  moment,  the  woman  in  the  garb  of  Mother 
Goose  has  dropped  from  the  balcony  to  the  ground  beneath, 
and,  bearing  her  still  burden  in  her  arms,  disappeared  in  the 
darkness. 

And  as  her  form  vanishes  from  the  balcony,  a  city  clock, 
far  away,  tolls  out  the  hour :  midnight. 

At  this  same  hour,  with  the  same  strokes  sounding  in  their 


108  :  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

ears,  a  party  ol  men  sally  forth  from  the  X —  street  Police  sta- 
tion, and  take  their  way  toward  the  river. 

They  are  policemen,  mostly  dressed  in  plain  clothes,  and 
heavily  armed^  every  man.  They  move  away  silently  like 
men  obeying  the  will  of  one  master,  and  presently  they 
separate,  dropping  off  by  twos  and  threes  into  different  by- 
ways and  obscure  streets,  to  meet  again  at  a  certain  rendez- 
vous. 

It  is  the  Raiding  Party  on  its  way  to  the  slums,  and,  con- 
trary to  the  hopes  of  the  Chief  of  the  detectives  and  the  Cap- 
tain of  the  police,  it  is  led,  not  by  Dick  Stanhope,  but 
by  Van  Vernet. 

Contrary  to  all  precedent,  and  greatly  to  the  surprise  of  all 
save  Vernet,  Richard  Stanhope  has  failed  to  appear  at  the 
time  appointed;  and  so,  after  many  doubts,  much  hesitation, 
and  some  delay,  Van  Vernet  is  made  leader  of  the  expedition. 

"  I  shall  send  Stanhope  as  soon  as  he  reports  here,"  the 
Chief  had  said  as  a  last  word  to  Vernet.  "His  absence  to- 
night is  most  reprehensible,  but  his  assistance  is  too  valuable 
to  be  dispensed  with." 

Mentally  hoping  that  Stanhope's  coming  may  be  delayed 
indefinitely,  Van  Vernet  bites  his  lip  and  goes  on  his  way, 
while  the  Chief  sits  down  to  speculate  as  to  Stanhope's  absence, 
and  to  await  his  coming. 

But  he  waits  in  vain.  The  long  night  passes,  and  day 
dawns,  and  Richard  Stanhope  does  not  appear. 

Meanwhile,  Van  Vernet  and  the  two  men  who  accompany 
him,  arrive  first  of  the  party  at  their  rendezvous. 

It  is  at  the  mouth  or  entrance  to  a  dark,  narrow  street,  the 
beginning  of  that  labyrinth  of  crooked  by-ways,  and  blind 
alleys,  from  the  maze  of  which  Richard  Stanhope  had  rescued 


A  CRY  IN  THE  DARK.  109 

himself  and   the  wounded  convict,  on  the   night  previous. 

Halting  here  Van  Vernet  waits  the  arrival  of  his  men,  and 
meditates.  He  is  tolerably  familiar  with  this  labyrinth; 
knows  it  as  well,  perhaps,  as  most  men  on  such  a  mission 
would  deem  necessary,  but  he  has  not  given  the  locality  and 
its  denizens  the  close  study  and  keen  investigation  that  Stan- 
hope has  considered  essential  to  success.  And  now,  as  he  peers 
down  the  dark  street,  thinking  of  the  maze  beyond,  and  the 
desperate  character  of  the  people  who  inhabit  it,  he  in- 
voluntarily wishes  for  that  closer  knowledge  that  only  Stan- 
hope possesses. 

He  knows  that  Stanhope,  in  various  disguises,  has  passed 
days  and  nights  among  these  haunts  of  iniquity;  that  he  can 
thread  these  intricate  alleys  in  the  darkest  night,  and  identify 
every  rogue  by  name  and  profession. 

He  thinks  of  these  things,  and  then  shrugs  his  shoulder 
with  characteristic  inconsequence.  He  has,  and  with  good 
reason,  unbounded  confidence  in  himself.  He  has  tact,  skill, 
courage;  what  man  may  do,  lie  can  do. 

What  are  these  miserable  outlaws  that  they  should  baffle 
Van  Vernet  the  skillful,  the  successful,  the  daring  ? 

Some  one  is  coming  toward  them  from  out  the  dark  alley. 
They  hear  the  fragment  of  an  idiotic  street  song,  trolled  out  in 
a  maudlin  voice,  and  then  feet  running,  skipping,  seeming 
now  and  then  to  prance  and  pirouette  absurdly. 

"  What  the— " 

The  exclamation  of  the  policeman  is  cut  short  by  the  sudden 
collision  of  his  stationary  figure  with  a  rapidly  moving  body. 
Then  he  grapples  with  his  unintentional  assailant  only  to 
release  him  suddenly,  as  Van  Vernet  throws  up  the  slide  of 
his  dark  lantern  and  turns  its  rays  upon  the  new-comer. 


110  DANGEROUS  GROUNtf. 

Involuntarily  all  three  utter  sharp  exclamations  as  they 
gather  around  the  apparation. 

What  a  figure!  Ragged,  unkempt,  fantastic;  the  same 
Avhich  a  short  time  ago  we  saw  descending  from  a  carriage 
only  a  few  rods  distant  from  this  very  spot. 

It  is  the  same  figure;  the  same  rags  and  tinsel  and  dirt; 
the  same  disfigured  face,  with  its  black  patch  and  its  fringe 
of  frowzy  hair;  the  same,  yet  worse  to  look  upon;  for  now  the 
under  jaw  is  dropped,  the  mouth  drivels,  the  eye  not  concealed 
by  the  patch  leers  stupidly. 

Unmistakably,  it  is  the  face  of  an  idiot. 

"How!"  ejaculates  this  being,  peering  curiously  at  the 
three.  "How  do?  Where  ye  goin' ?" 

Van  Vernet  gazes  curiously  for  a  moment,  then  utters  a 
sound  expressive  of  satisfaction,  He  has  heard  of  a  fool  that 
inhabits  these  alleys;  Stanhope  has  mentioned  him  on  one 
or  two  occasions.  "  A  modernized  Barnaby  Rudge,"  Stan- 
hope had  called  him.  Surely  this  must  be  him. 

Turning  to  one  of  his  men  he  says,  in  an  undertone  : 

"  If  I'm  not  mistaken  this  fellow  is  a  fool  who  grew  up  in 
these  slums,  and  knows  them  by  heart.  '  Silly  Charlie,'  I 
think,  they  call  him.  I  believe  we  can  make  him  useful." 

Then  turning  to  the  intruder  he  says  suavely: 

"  How  are  you,  my  man  ?     How  are  you  ?" 

But  a  change  has  come  over  the  mood  of  the  seeming  idiot. 
Striking  his  breast  majestically,  and  pointing  to  a  huge  tin 
star  which  decorates  it,  he  waves  his  hand  toward  them,  and 
says  with  absurd  dignity: 

"G'way — <fway  \  Charlie  big  p'liceman.  Gittin'  late ; 
tfway." 

"  We  must  humor  him,  boys,"  says  Vernet  aside.     Then  to 


"(J'way— g'way\     Charlie  big  p'liceman.     Gittin'  lute;  g'way!" — page  110. 

Ill  * 


112  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Charlie — "So  you're  a  policeman?     "Well,  so  am  I;  look." 

And  turning  back  the  lapel  of  his  coat  he  displays,  on  the 
inner  side,  the  badge  of  an  officer. 

Silly  Charlie  comes  close,  peers  eagerly  at  the  badge,  fingers 
it  curiously,  then,  grasping  it  firmly,  gives  a  tug  at  the  lapel, 
saying : 

"  Gimme  it.     Gimme  it." 

Van  Vernet  laughs  good-naturedly. 

"  Don't  pull  so  hard,  Charlie,  or  you'll  have  off  my  entire 
uniform.  Do  you  want  to  do  a  little  police  duty  to-night  ?" 

Silly  Charlie  nods  violently. 

"  And  you  want  my  star,  or  one  like  it  ?" 

"  Um  hum  /"  with  sudden  emphasis.  , 

Van  Vernet  lays  a  hand  on 'the  shoulder  of  the  idiot,  and 
then  says : 

"  Listen, Charlie.  I  wantyou  to  help  me  to-night.  Wait," 
for  Charlie  has  doubled  himself  up  in  a  convulsion  of  laugh- 
ter. "  Now,  if  you'll  stand  right  by  me,  and  tell  me  what  I 
want  to  know,  you  and  I  will  do  some  splendid  work,  and 
both  get  promoted.  You  will  get  a  new  star,  big  and  bright, 
and  a  uniform  all  covered  with  bright  buttons.  Hold  on,"  for 
Charlie  is  dancing  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight.  "  What  do  you 
say  ?  Will  you  come  with  me,  and  work  for  your  star  and 
uniform  ?" 

Charlie's  enthusiastic  gestures  testify  to  his  delight  at  this 
proposition. 

"  Um  hum,"  he  cries  gleefully  ;  "  Charlie  go ;  Charlie  be 
big  p'liceman." 

And  as  if  suddenly  realizing  the  dignity  of  his  new  em- 
ployment, he  ceases  his  antics  and  struts  sedately  up  and  down 
before  Vernet  and  his  assistants. '  Then  turning  to  the  detec- 


DANGEROUS  GROUND.  113 

tive,  with   a  doleful  whine,  he   extends  his  hand,  saying; 

"  Gimme  star  now" 

"Not  now,  Charlie ;  you  must  earn  it  first.  I  had  to  earn 
mine.  Do  you  know  the  way  to  Devil's  alley  ?" 

"Urn  hum!" 

"  Good  :  do  you  know  where  Black  Nathan  lives !" 

"Urn  hum!" 

"  Can  you  take  me  to  Nancy  Kaiser's  lushing  ken  ?w 

"  Um  hum ;  Charlie  knows." 

"  Then,  Charlie,  you  shall  have  that  star  soon." 

And  Vernet  turns  to  his  men.  "  I  will  take  this  fellow  for 
guide,  and  look  up  these  places  :  they  are  most  important," 
he  says  rapidly.  "  I  shall  be  less  noticed  in  company  with 
this  fellow  than  if  alone.  Riley,  I  leave  you  in  command 
until  I  return.  Remain  here,  and  keep  the  fellows  all  to- 
gether ;  some  of  them  are  coming  now." 

Riley's  quick  ear  detects  the  approach  of  stealthy  feet,  and 
as  Vernet  shuts  his  lantern,  and  utters  a1  low  "Come,  Charlie," 
the  first  installment  of  the  Raiders  appears,  a  few  paces 
away. 

Seizing  Vernet  by  the  arm,  Silly  Charlie  lowers  his  head 
and  glides  down  the  alley,  as  stealthily  as  an  Indian. 

"Charlie,"  whispers  Vernet,  imperatively,  "you  must  be 
very  cautious.  I  want  you  to  take  me  first  to  where  Black 
Nathan  lives." 

"Hoop  la!"  replies  Charlie  in  subdued  staccato;  "I'm 
takin'  ye ;  commalong." 

Cautiously  they  wend  their  way  down  the  dark,  narrow 
street,  into  a  filthy  alley,  and  through  it  to  an  open  space  laid 
bare  by  some  recent  fire. 

Here  they  halt  for  a  moment,  Charlie  peering  curiously 

8. 


114  A  PRETTY  PLOT. 

around  him,  and  stooping  to  search  for  something  among  the 
loose  stones. 

Suddenly  a  shriek  pierces  the  silence  about  them — a  woman's 
shriek,  thrice  repeated,  its  tones  fraught  with  agony  and  terror ! 

Silly  Charlie  lifts  himself  suddenly  erect,  and  turns  his  face 
toward  a  dark  building  just  across  the  open  space.  Then,  as 
the  third  cry  sounds  upon  the  air,  both  men,  as  by  one  humane 
instinct,  bound  across  the  waste  regardless  of  stones  and 
bruises,  Silly  Charlie  flying  on  before,  as  if  acquainted  with 
every  inch  of  the  ground,  straight  toward  the  dark  and  isolated 
building. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  PRETTY  PLOT. 

In  order  to  comprehend  the  cause  of  the  alarm  which 
stimulated  to  sudden  action  both  the  wise  man  and  the  fool, 
Van  Vernet  and  Silly  Charlie,  let  us  turn  back  a  little  and 
enter  the  dark  house  at  the  foot  of  the  alley. 

It  is  an  hour  before  midnight.  The  place  is  dark  and 
silent;  no  light  gleams  through  the  tightly  boarded  windows, 
there  is  no  sign  of  life  about  the  dwelling.  But  within,  as  on 
a  previous  occasion,  ther.^  is  li^ht,  life,  and  a  measure  of 
activity.  The  light  is  furnished  by  a  solitary  tallow  candle, 
and  the  life  supplied  by  the  same  little  old  man  who,  on  a 
former  occasion,  was  thrown  into  a  state  of  unreasonable  terror 
at  sight  of  a  certain  newspaper  advertisement. 

It  is  the  same  room,  its  appointments  unchanged ;  the  same 


A  PRETTY  PLOT.  115 

squalor  and  dirt,  the  same  bottle  upon  the  same  shelf,  the 
same  heap  of  rags  in  the  corner,  the  same  fragments  of  iron 
and  copper  on  the  floor.  The  same  deal  table  and  scrap  of 
carpet  are  there,  but  not  arranged  as  on  a  former  occasion,  for 
now  the  table  is  pushed  back  against  the  wall,  the  piece  of  carpet 
is  flung  in  a  wrinkled  heap  away  from  the  place  which  it  cov- 
ered, exposing  to  view  a  dark  gap  in  the  floor,  with  a  dang- 
ling trap-door  opening  downward.  Besidethis  opening  squats 
the  little  old  man,  his  eyes  as  ferret-like  and  restless  as  usual, 
but  his  features  more  complacent  and  less  apprehensive  than 
when  last  we  saw  him. 

By  h;s  side  is  the  sputtering  tallow  candle,  and  in  his  hand 
a  long  hooked  stick,  with  which  he  is  lowering  sundry  bags 
and  bundles  down  the  trap,  lifting  the  candle  from  time  to 
time  to  peer  into  the  opening,  then  resuming  his  work  and 
muttering  meanwhile. 

"What's  this?"  he  soliloquizes,  lifting  a  huge  bundle  and 
scrutinizing  it  carefully.  "  Ah-h  !  a  gentleman's  fine  over- 
coat; that  must  have  a  nice,  safe  corner.  Ah-h!  there  you  go," 
lowering  the  bundle  down  the  aperture  and  poking  it  into 
position  with  his  stick.  "  It's  amazin'  what  valuables  my 
people  finds  about  the  streets,"  he  chuckles  facetiously. 
"'Ere's  a — a  little  silver  tea-pot;  some  rich  woman  must  a- 
throwed  that  out.  I  will  put  it  on  the  shelf." 

Evidently  the  shelf  mentioned  is  in  the  cellar  below,  for 
this  parcel,  like  the  first,  is  lowered  and  carefully  placed  by 
means  of  the  stick.  Other  bundles  of  various  sizes  follow, 
and  then  the  old  man  rests  from  his  labor. 

"  What  a  nice  little  hole  that  is,"  he  mutters.  "  Full  of 
rags — nothin'  else.  Suppose  a  cop  comes  in  here  and  looks 
down,  what  'ud  he  see  ?  Just  rags.  S'pose  he  went  down, 


116  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

ha !  ha !  he'd  go  waist-deep  in  a  bed  of  old  rags,  and  he 
wouldn't  like  the  smell  overmuch ;  such  a  nice  smell — for  cops. 
He  couldn't  see  anything,  couldn't  feel  anything  but  rags,  just 
rags." 

A  low  tap  at  the  street-door  causes  the  old  man  to  drop  his 
stick  and  his  soliloquy  at  once.  He  starts  nervously,  listens 
intently  for  a  moment,  and  then  rises  cautiously.  A  long,  low 
whistle  evidently  reassures  him,  for  with  suddenly  acquired 
self-possession  he  begin*  to  move  about. 

Swiftly  and  noiselessly  he  closes  the  trap,  spreads  down  the 
bit  of  carpet,  and  replaces  the  table.  Then  he  shuffles  toward 
the  entrance,  pulls  out  the  pin  from  the  hole  in  the  door,  and 
peeps  out.  Nothing  is  visible  but  the  darkness,  and  this, 
somehow;  seems  to  reassure  him,  for  with  a  snort  of  impatience 
he  calls  out: 

"Who  knocks?" 

"  It's  Siebel,"  replies  a  voice  from  without.  "  Open  up, 
old  Top." 

Instantly  the  door  is  unbarred  and  swung  open,  admitting 
a  burly  ruffian,  who  fairly  staggers  under  the  weight  of  a 
monstrous  sack  which  he  carries  upon  his  shoulders. 

At  sight  of  this  bulky  burden  the  old  man  smiles  and  rubs 
his  palms  together. 

"Ah!  Josef,"  he  says,  reaching  out  to  relieve  the  new- 
comer, "a  nice  load  that;  a  very  nice  load!" 

But  the  man  addressed  as  Josef  retains  his  hold  upon  his 
burden,  and,  resting  himself  against  it,  looks  distrustfully  at 
his  host. 

"  It's  been  a  fine  evening,  Josef,"  insinuates  the  old  man, 
his  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  bag. 

"  Fair  enough,"  replies  Josef  gruffly,  as  he  unties  the  bag 


A  PRETTY  PLOT.  117 

and  pushes  it  toward  the  old  man.     "Take  a  look  at  the  stuff, 
Papa  Francoise,  and  make  a  bid.     I'm  dead  thirsty." 

Eagerly  seizing  the  bag,  Papa  Francoise  drags  it  toward  the 
table,  closely  followed  by  Josef,  and  begins  a  hasty  examina- 
tion of  its  contents,  saying: 

"Rags  is  rags,  you  know,  Josef  Siebel.  It's  not  much  use 
to  look  into  'em ;  there's  nothing  here  but  rags,  of  course." 

"No,  course  not,"  with  a  satirical  laugh. 

"That's  right,  Josef;  I  won't  buy  nothing  but  rags, — 
never.  I  don't  want  no  ill-gotten  gains  brought  to  me." 

Josef  Siebel  utters  another  short,  derisive  laugh,  and  dis- 
creetly turns  his  gaze  toward  the  smoky  ceiling  while  Papa  be- 
gins his  investigations.  From  out  the  capacious  bag  he  draws 
a  rich  shawl,  hurriedly  examines  it,  and  thrusts  it  back  again. 

"  The  rag-picker  can  be  an  honest  man  as  well  as  another, 
Josef,"  continues  this  virtuous  old  gentleman,  drawing  forth 
a  silver  soup-ladle  and  thrusting  it  back.  "These  are  very 
good  rags,  Josef,"  and  he  draws  out  a  switch  of  blonde  hair, 
and  gazes  upon  it  admiringly.  Then  he  brings  out  a  handful 
of  rags,  examines  them  ostentatiously  by  the  light  of  the 
candle,  smells  them,  and  ties  up  the  bag,  seeing  which  Josef 
withdraws  his  eyes  from  the  cobwebs  overhead  and  fixes  them 
on  the  black  bottle  upon  the  shelf. 

Noting  the  direction  of  his  gaze,  Papa  Francoise  rests  the 
bag  against  the  table-leg,  trots  to  the  shelf,  pours  a  scanty 
measure  from  the  black  bottle  into  a  tin  cup,  and  presents  it 
to  Josef  with  what  is  meant  for  an  air  of  gracious  hospitality. 

"  You  spoke  of  thirst,  Josef;  drink,  my  friend." 

"Umph,"  mutters  the  fellow,  draining  off  the  liquor  at  a 
draught.  Then  setting  the  cup  hastily  down;  "Now,  old 
Top,  wot's  your  bid?" 


118  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  Well,"  replies  Papa  Francoise,  trying  to  look  as  if  he 
had  not  already  settled  that  question  with  his  own  mind; 
"well,  Josef  I'll  give  you — I'll  give  you  a  dollar  and  a 
half." 

"The  dickens  you  will!" 

Josef  makes  a  stride  toward  the  bag,  and  lifts  it  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"Stop,  Josef !"  cries  Papa,  laying  eager  hands  upon  the 
treasure.  "What  do  you  want?  That's  a  good  price  for 
rags." 

"Bah!"  snarls  the  burly  ruffian,  turning  toward  the  door, 
"  wot  d've  take  me  for,  ye  blasted  old  fence?" 

But  Papa  has  a  firm  clutch  upon  the  bag. 

"Stop,  Josef!"  he  cries  eagerly;  "let  me  see,"  pulling  it 
down  from  his  shoulder  and  lifting  it  carefully.  "Why,  it's 
heavier  than  I  thought.  Josef,  I'll  give  you  two  dollars  and 
a  half, — no  more." 

The  "  no  more"  is  sharply  uttered,  and  evidently  Siebel  com- 
prehends the  meaning  behind  the  words,  for  he  reseats  him- 
self sullenly,  muttering : 

"It  ain't  enough,  ye  cursed  cantin' old  skinflint,  but  fork  it 
out ;  I've  got  to  have  money." 

At  this  instant  there  comes  a  short,  sharp,  single  knock  upon 
the  street-door,  and  Papa  hastens  to  open  it,  admitting  a  squalid, 
blear-eyed  girl,  or  woman,  who  enters  with  reluctant  step,  and 
sullen  demeanor. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  Nance,"  says  Papa,  going  back  to  the  table 
and  beginning  to  count  out  some  money,  eyeing  the  girl  keenly 
meanwhile.  "One  dollar, — sit  down,  Nance, — two  dollars, 
fifty ;  there!  Now,  Nance,"  turning  sharply  toward  the  girl, 
"what  have  you  got,  eh?" 


' ;  The'  rag-picker  can  be  an  honest  man  as  well  as  another  Josef.  — 
page  117 

119 


120  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Nothing"  replies  Nance  sullenly;  " nothin'  that  will  suit 
you.  I  ain't  had  no  luck." 

"  Nobody  left  nothiii'  lyin'  round  loose,  I  s'pose,"  says 
Siebel  with  a  coarse  laugh,  as  he  pockets  the  price  of  his  day's 
labor.  "  Wai,  ye've  come  ter  a  poor  place  for  sympathy,  gal." 
And  he  rises  slowly  and  shuffles  toward  the  door. 

But  Papa  makes  a  gesture  to  stay  him. 

"Hold  on,  Josef!"  he  cries;  "wait  Nance!" 

He  seizes  the  bag,  hurries  it  away  into  an  inner  room,  and 
returns  panting  for  breath.  Drawing  a  stool  toward  the  table, 
he  perches  himself  thereon  and  leers  across  at  the  two  sneak 
thieves. 

"  So  ye  aint  had  any  luck,  girl  ?"  he  says,  in  a  wheedling 
tone,  "  and  Josef,  here,  wants  money.  Do  ye  want  more  than 
ye've  got  Josef?" 

"  Ha  ha !  Do  I  ?"  And  Josef  slaps  his  pockets  sugges- 
tively. 

"  Now  listen,  both  of  you.  Suppose,  I  could  help  you  two 
to  earn  some  money  easy  and  honest,  what  then  ?" 

"  Easy  and  honest  /"  repeats  Siebel,  with  a  snort  of  deris- 
ion ;  "  Oh,  Lord  !" 

But  the  girl  leans  forward  with  hungry  eyes,  saying  eagerly : 
"How?  tell  us  how." 

"  I'll  tell  you.  Suppose,  just  suppose,  a  certain  rich  lady— 
very  rich,  mind — being  a  little  in  my  debt,  should  come  here 
to-night  to  see  me.  And  suppose  she  is  very  anxious  not  to 
be  seen  by  any  body — on  account  of  her  high  position,  you 
know — " 

"  Oh,  lip  it  livelier !"  cries  Siebel  impatiently.  "  Stow  yer 
swash," 

"Well;  suppose  you  and  Nance,  here,  was  to  come  in  sud- 


A  COUNTERPLOT.  121 

den  and  see  the  lady  face  to  face,  why,  for  fear  she  might  be 
called  on  by — say  by  Nance,  she  might  pay  a  little,  don't  you 
see—" 

But  Siebel  breaks  in  impatiently: 

"  Oh,  skip  the  rubbish  !  Is  there  any  body  to  bleed  ?" 

"  Is  it  a  safe  lay  ?"  queries  Nance. 

"Yes,  yes;  it's  safe,  of  course,"  cries  Papa,  thus  compelled 
to  come  down  to  plain  facts. 

"  Then  let's  get  down  to  business.  Do  you  expect  an  angel's 
visit  here  to-night  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  what's  yer  plan  ?  Out  with  it :  Nance  and  I  are 
with  ye,  if  ye  divvy  fair." 

Beckoning  them  to  come  closer,  Papa  Francoise  leans  across 
the  table,  and  sinking  his  voice  to  a  harsh  whisper,  unfolds 
the  plan  by  which,  without  danger  to  themselves,  they  are  to 
become  richer. 

It  is  a  pretty  plan  but — "  Man  sows  ;  a  whirlwind  reaps." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A    COUNTERPLOT. 

It  is  a  half  hour  later.  The  light  in  the  room  is  increased 
by  a  sputtering  additional  candle,  and  Papa  Francoise,  sit- 
ting by  the  deal  table,  is  gazing  toward  the  door,  an  eager  ex- 
pectant look  upon  his  face. 

"  If  that  old  woman  were  here  !"  he  mutters,  and  then 
starts  forward  at  the  sound  of  a  low  hesitating  tap. 

*6 


122       .  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Hurrying  to  the  door  he  unbars  it  with  eager  haste,  and  a 
smile  of  blandest  delight  overspreads  his  yellow  face  as  the 
new-comer  ent  TS. 

It  is  a  woman,  slender  and  graceful ;  a  lady,  who  holds  up 
her  trailing  black  garments  daintily  as  she  steps  across 
the  threshold,  repulsing  the  proffered  hand-clasp  with  a 
haughty  gesture,  and  gliding  away  from  him  while  she  says 
in  a  tone  of  distressful  remonstrance : 

"  Man,  why  have  you  sent  for  me  ?  Don't  you  know  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  last  straw  ?" 

"  A  last  straw  !"  His  voice  is  a  doleful  whine,  his  man- 
ner obsequious  to  servility.  "Ah,  my  child,  I  wanted  to  see 
you  so  much ;  your  poor  mother  wanted  to  see  you  so  much !" 

The  woman  throws  back  her  veil  with  a  gesture  of  fierce 
defiance,  disclosing  the  face  of  Leslie  Warburton  pale  and  woe- 
stricken,  but  quite  as  lovely  as  when  it  shone  upon  Stanhope, 
surrounded  by  the  halo  of  "  Sunlight." 

"  You  hypocrite !"  she  exclaims  scornfully.  "Parents  do 
not  persecute  their  children  as  you  and  the  woman  you  call 
my  mother  have  persecuted  me.  You  gave  me  to  the  Uli- 
mans  when  I  was  but  an  infant, — that  I  know, — but  the  pa- 
pers signed  by  you  do  not  speak  of  me  as  your  child.  Be- 
sides, does  human  instinct  go  for  nothing  ?  If  you  were  my 
father  would  I  loathe  these  meetings  ?  Would  I  shudder  at 
your  touch  ?  Would  my  wrhole  soul  rise  in  rebellion  against 
your  persecutions  ?" 

Her  eyes  flash  upon  him  and  the  red  blood  mounts  to  her 
cheeks.  In  the  excitement  of  the  moment  she  has  forgotten 
her  fear.  Her  voice  rises  clear  and  ringing;  and  Papa  Fran- 
coise,  thinking  of  two  possible  listeners  concealed  not  far 
away,  utters  a  low  "  sh-h-h-h !" 


A  COUNTERPLOT.  123 

"  Not  so  loud,  my  child,"  he  says  ID  an  undertone ;  "  not 
so  loud.  Ah  !  you  ungrateful  girl,  we  wanted  to  see  you  rich 
and  happy,  and  this  is  how  you  thank  us,"  affecting  profound 
grief.  "These  rich  people  have  taught  you  to  loathe  your 
poor  old  father!" 

He  sinks  upon  the  stool  as  if  in  utter  dejection,  wipes  away 
an  imaginary  tear,  and  then  resumes,  in  the  same  guarded 
tone : 

"  My  dear  child,  when  we  gave  you  to  the  Ulimans  we  were 
very  poor,  and  they  were  very  rich, — a  great  deal  richer  than 
when  they  died,  leaving  you  only  a  few  thousands." 

"  Which  you  have  already  extorted  from  me  !  I  have  given 
you  every  dollar  I  possess  and  yet  you  live  like  beggars." 

"And  we  are  beggars,  my  child.  Some  unfortunate  spec- 
ulations have  swept  away  all  our  little  gains,  and  now — " 

"  And  now  you  want  more  money, — the  old  story.  Listen  : 
you  have  called  me  to-night  from  my  husband's  home,  forced 
me  to  steal  away  from  my  guests  like  the  veriest  criminal, 
threatening  to  appear  among  them  if  I  failed  to  come.  At 
this  moment  you,  who  call  yourself  my  father,  stand  there 
gloating  and  triumphant  because  of  the  power  you  hold  over 
me.  I  knew  you  were  capable  of  keeping  your  word,  and 
rather  than  have  my  husband's  home  desecrated  by  such  pre- 
sence as  yours,  I  amhere.  But  I  have  come  for  the  last  time — " 

"  No,  my  child,  oh!—" 

But  she  pays  no  heed  to  his  expostulations. 

"  I  have  come  for  the  last  time !"  she  says  with  fierce 
decision.  "  I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  from  this  moment  I 
defy  you !" 

"Softly,  my  dear;  sh-h-h  !" 

His  face,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  retain  its  benign  expres- 


124  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

sion,  is  growing  vindictive  and  cruel.     He  comes  toward  her 
with  slow  cat-like  movements. 

But  she  glides  backward  as  he  advances,  and,  putting  the 
table  between  herself  and  him,  she  hurries  on,  never  heeding 
that  she  has,  by  this  movement,  increased  the  distance  from 
the  outer  door — and  safety. 

"  You  have  carried  your  game  too  far  !"  she  says.  "  When 
you  first  appeared  before  me,  so  soon  after  the  loss  of  my 
adopted  parents  that  it  would  seem  you  were  waiting  for  that 
event — " 

"So  we  were,  my  child,"  he  interrupts,  "for  we  had  promised 
not  to  come  near  you  during  their  lifetime." 

"You  had  promised  never  to  approach  me,  never  to  claim 
me,  as  the  documents  I  found  among  my  mother's — among 
Mrs.  Uliman's  papers  prove.  Oh,"  she  cries,  wringing  her 
hands  and  lifting  her  fair  face  heavenward;  "oh,  my  mother! 
my  dear,  sweet,  gentle  mother!  Oh,  my  father!  the  truest, 
the  tenderest  a  wretched  orphan  ever  had  on  earth !  that  Death 
should  take  you,  and  Life  bring  me  such  creatures  to  fill  your 
places !  But  they  cannot,  they  never  shall!" 

"  Oh,  good  Lord !"  mutters  Papa  under  his  breath,  "  those 
fools  up  stairs  will  hear  too  much !" 

But  Leslie's  indignation  has  swallowed  up  all  thought  of 
caution,  and  her  words  pour  out  torrent-like. 

"Oh,  if  I  had  but  denounced  you  at  the  first!"  she  cries; 
"or  forced  you  to  prove  your  claim!  Oh,  if  you  had  shown 
yourselves  then  in  all  your  greed  and  heartlessness !  But  while 
I  was  Leslie  Uliman,  with  only  a  moderate  fortune,  you 
were  content  to  take  what  I  could  give,  and  not  press  what 
you  are  pleased  to  term  your  claim  upon  my  affections.  Affec- 
tions !  The  word  is  mockery  from  your  lips !  In  considera- 


A  COUNTERPLOT.  125 

tion  of  the  large  sums  I  paid  you,  you  promised  never  to 
approach  me  in  the  future,  and  I,  fool  that  I  was,  believing 
myself  free  from  you,  married  David  Warburton,  only  to  find 
myself  again  your  victim,  to  know  you  at  last  in  all  your 
baseness." 

Papa  Francoise,  unable  to  stem  the  tide  of  her  eloquence, 
shows  signs  of  anger,  but  she  never  heeds  him. 

"  Since  I  became  the  wife  of  a  rich  man,  you  have  been 
my  constant  torment  and  terror.  Threatening  and  wheedling 
by  turns,  black-mailing  constantly,  you  have  drained  my  purse, 
you  have  made  my  life  a  burden.  And  I  came  here  to-night 
to  say,  I  will  have  no  more  of  your  persecution  !  All  of  my 
money  has  been  paid  into  your  hands,  but  not  one  dollar  of 
my  husband's  wealth  shall  ever  come  to  you  from  me.  I  swear 
it!" 

The  old  man  again  moves  nearer. 

"  Ah,  ungrateful  girl!"  he  cries,  feigning  the  utmost  grief ; 
"ah, unkind  girl!" 

And  his  affectation  of  sorrow  causes  two  unseen  observers 
to  grin  with  delight,  and  brings  to  Leslie's  countenance  an  ex- 
pression of  intense  disgust. 

Moving  back  as  he  approaches,  she  throws  up  her  head 
with  an  impatient  gesture,  and  the  veil  which  has  covered  it 
falls  to  her  shoulders,  revealing  even  by  that  dim  light, , 
the  glisten  of  jewels  in  her  ears — great,  gleaming  diamonds, 
which  she,  in  her  haste  and  agitation,  has  forgotten  to  remove 
before  setting  out  upon  this  unsafe  errand. 

It  is  a  most  unfortunate  movement,  for  two  pair  of  eyes 
are  peering  down  from  directly  above  her,  and  two  pair  of 
avaricious  hands  itch  to  clutch  the  shining  treasures. 

Obeying   Papa's   instructions,  Josef  Siebel   and   the  girl 


126  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Nance,  had  mounted  the  riekety  stairway  which  they  reached 
through  a  closet-like  ante-room  opening  from  the  large  one  oc- 
cupied by  Papa  and  Leslie.  And  having  stationed  themselves 
near  the  top  of  the  stairs  they  awaited  there  the  coming  of  the 
lady  who,  surprised  by  their  presence,  was  to  proffer  them 
hush-money  with  a  liberal  hand;  but — 

"  The  best-laid  plans  of  men  andmice  gang  aft  agleg." 

And  Papa  Francoise  has  not  anticipated  the  spirited  out- 
break  with  which  Leslie  has  astonished  him.  Startled  by 
this,  and  fearful  that,  by  a  false  move,  he  should  entirely  lose 
his  power  over  her,  he  has  made  feeble  efforts  to  stay  the  flow 
of  her  speech  and  neglected  to  give  the  signal  for  which 
the  concealed  sneak  thieves  have  waited,  until  it  was  too  late. 

Crouched  on  the  floor  near  the  stairway,  the  two  thieves 
have  heard  the  entrance  of  Leslie,  heard  the  hum  of  conversa- 
tion, low  and  indistinct  at  first,  until  the  voice  of  Leslie,  rising 
high  and  clear,  startled  Siebel  into  a  listening  attitude.  Touch- 
ing Nance  on  the  arm,  he  begins  slowly  to  drag  himself  along 
the  floor  to  where  a  faint  ray  of  light  tells  him  there  is  a  place 
of  observation. 

The  floor  is  exceedingly  dilapidated,  and  the  ceiling  below 
warped  and  sieve-like ;  and,  having  reached  the  chink  in  the 
floor,  Siebel  finds  himself  able  to  look  directly  down  upon 
Leslie  as  she  stands  near  the  table. 

In  another  moment  Nance  is  beside  him,  and  then  the  two 
faces  are  glued  to  the  floor,  their  eyes  taking  in  the  scene  be- 
low, their  ears  listening  greedily. 

At  first  they  listen  with  simple  curiosity;  then  with  as- 
tonished interest;  then  with  intense  satisfaction  at  Papa's 
evident  discomfiture,  for  they  hate  him  as  the  slave  ever  hates 
his  tyrant. 


A  DETECTIVE  TRAPPED.  127 

When  the  veil  falls  from  Leslie's  head,  Siebel's  quick  eye 
is  the  first  to  catch  the  shine  of  the  diamonds  in  her  ears.  He 
stifles  an  exclamation,  looks  again,  and  then  grasps  the  arm  of 
his  confederate : 

"  Nance,"  he  whispers  eagerly,  "  Nance,  look — in  her  ears." 

The  girl  peers  down,  and  fairly  gasps. 

"Shiners!"  she  whispers;  "ah,  they  make  my  eyes  water!" 

"  They  make  my  fingers  itch,"  he  returns;  "d'ye  twig,  gal?" 

"Eh?" 

Drawing  her  away  from  the  aperture,  he  says,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper : 

"Gal,  I've  got  a  plan  that'll  lay  over  old  Beelzebub's  down 
there,  if  we  kin  only  git  the  chance  ter  play  it.  See  here, 
Nance,  are  yewillin'  to  make  a  bold  stroke  fer  them  shiners?" 

"How?" 

"By  surprisin'  'em.  If  I'll  floor  the  old  man,  can't  you 
tackle  the  gal?" 

Nance  takes  a  moment  for  consideration  ;  they  exchange  a 
few  more  whispered  words  and  then  begin  to  creep  stealthily 
toward  the  stairway. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  DETECTIVE  TRAPPED. 

While  the  thieves  are  gazing  upon  her  from  above,  Leslie 
Warburton,  unconscious  of  this  new  danger  that  threatens  her, 
replaces  her  veil  and  continues  to  address  the  old  man. 

"Once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,"  she  pleads,  "I  ask  you 
to  tell  me  the  truth.  Give  up  this  claim  of  kinship.  If 


128  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

you  were  my  father,  something  in  my  heart  would  tell  me  so; 
God  has  not  created  me  lower  than  the  brutes.  What  do  you 
know  of  my  parentage  ?  You  must  possess  some  knowledge. 
Man,  I  would  go  upon  my  knees  to  you  to  learn  the  truth !" 

Papa  is  silent  a  moment,  then  he  begins  to  cough  violently. 
It  is  the  signal  for  the  two  thieves  to  enter,  but  they  do  not 
respond  as  promptly  as  Papa  could  wish. 

"My  child,"  he  begins  feebly,  but  leaves  the  sentence  un- 
finished at  the  sound  of  a  double  knock  upon  the  door. 

"  Ah-h-h  I"  he  cries  with  evident  relief,  "  here  comes  your 
mother ;  she  can  tell  you  how  wrong  you  are." 

And  he  hastens  to  admit  an  old  woman,  literally  lost  in  an 
ample  old-fashioned  cloak,  and  bearing  in  her  arms  a  long 
and  apparently  heavy  bundle. 

"  Ah,"  says  the  old  hypocrite,  "  here  you  are  at  last,  after 
being  at  the  toil  of  the  poor.  Come  in,  old  woman,  here  is 
our  proud  girl  come  to  see  us."  Then  as  his  eyes  rest  upon 
the  bundle,  he  grasps  her  wrist  and  hisses  in  her  ear :  "  You 
old  fool !  to  bring  that  here." 

"I  had  to  do  it,"  she  retorts  in  a  whisper;  "there  are  cops 
in  the  alleys." 

With  a  fierce  gesture  toward  the  rear  door,  Papa  seizes  the 
bundle,  saying : 

"  Why,  it  is  very  heavy;  old  iron,  I  suppose ;  and  how 
horrid  those  old  rags  smell.  We  must  take  them  away,  old 
woman." 

And  with  a  jerk  of  the  head  which,  evidently,  she  under- 
stands, he  turns  toward  the  aforementioned  door,  and  they 
bear  the  big  bundle  out  between  them. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  flickering  light,  perhaps  it  is  her  disordered 
fancy,  but  as  they  bear  their  burden  through  the  doorway, 


A  DETECTIVE  TRAPPED.  129 

Leslie  Warburton  half  believes  that  she  sees  it  move.  A 
moment  later  she  starts  forward,  her  face  blanched,  her  eyes 
distended. 

"Oh,  am  I  losing  my  senses?"  she  cries,  "or  did  I  hear  a 
child's  voice,  a  voice  like  my  little  Daisy's,  calling  '  mamma?' '' 

A  moment  she  listens,  but  no  child's  voice  breaks  the  still- 
ness ;  even  Papa  and  Mamma  Francoise  are  silent  in  the  room 
without. 

A  sudden  feeling  of  terror  possesses  Leslie. 

"Oh,  these  wicked  people  are  driving  me  mad!"  she  mur- 
murs brokenly.  "  Anything  is  better  than  this.  I  will  go 
home  and  confess  all  to  my  husband.  I  will  brave  the  worst, 
rather  than  be  so  tortured !" 

Drawing  her  cloak  about  her,  she  makes  a  step  toward  the 
door. 

Only  a  single  step,  for  strong  hands  seize  her  from  behind, 
and,  uttering  a  shriek  of  terror,  she  sees  a  ferocious  face  close 
to  her  own,  feels  a  clutch  upon  her  throat,  and  is  struggling 
between  two  fierce  assailants. 

"  Get  on  to  the  shiners,  gal/'  commands  Siebel,  as  he  pin- 
ions her  arms  with  his  powerful  hands. 

Again  Leslie  utters  a  cry  for  help,  and  what  follows  is  the 
work  of  a  moment. 

The  outer  door,  left  unbarred  after  the  entrance  of  Mamma 
Francoise,  is  dashed  open  and  a  man  attired  as  a  sailor  bounds 
into  the  room.  At  the  same  moment  Papa  and  Mamma 
Francoise  rush  upon  the  scene. 

"Stop,  Josef,  you  demon,  stop!"  cries  Papa  wildly,  and 
scarce  noticing  the  stranger  in  their  midst ;  while  the  sailor, 
without  uttering  a  word,  hurls  himself  upon  Leslie's  assail- 
ants. 

9 


130  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Then  follows  a  moment  of  confusion,  a  wild  straggle  for 
the  mastery,  which  ends  soon  in  a  horrible  tableau. 

Near  the  door  stands  Papa  Francoise,  his  face  livid,  his 
teeth  chattering,  his  foot  poised  for  instant  flight.  In  the 
corner,  borne  down  by  the  force  and  fury  of  Mamma  Fran- 
coise, the  girl,  Nance,  lies  prostrate,  her  throat  still  in  the 
clutch  of  the  virago,  whose  face  bears  bloody  evidence  that 
Nance  has  not  succumbed  without  a  struggle.  In  the  center 
of  the  room  stands  Alan  Warburton,  one  arm  supporting  the 
half  fainting  form  of  Leslie,  the  other  hanging  limp  by  his 
side;  and  at  his  feet,  ghastly  and  horrible,  lies  the  form  of 
Josef  Siebel,  his  skull  crushed  out  of  all  semblance  to  human- 
ity, and  a  bar  of  rusty  iron  lying  close  beside  him. 

There  is  a  moment  of  awful  stillne-s  in  the  room. 

Then  Leslie  Warburton's  strong  nature  asserts  itself.  With- 
drawing from  Alan's  supporting  arm,  she  fixes  her  eyes  upon 
his  face. 

"Oh,  Alan,"  she  says,  "you  followed — " 

"I  followed  you?  Yes,"  he  answers  sternly.  "Hush!" 
as  she  is  about  to  speak,  "this  is  no  time  for  wonK" 

There  is  a  shout  from  the  street,  and  the  sound  of  approach- 
ing footsteps.  Papa  Francoise  seems  galvanixc  I  into  new 
life. 

"The  police!"  he  cries,  springing  through  the  door  by 
which  he  has  lately  entered.  Mamma  Francoise,  re-leasing  her 
hold  upon  the  girl,  Xance,  bounds  up  in  affright,  and  hurries 
after  her  partner  in  iniquity ;  while  Xance,  who  evidently 
fears  her  less  than  she  dreads  the  police,  loses  no  time  in  fol' 
lowing  the  pair,  leaving  Alan  and  Leslie  alone,  with  the  dead 
man  at  their  feet. 

The  approaching  footsteps  come  nearer,  and  Ala'n,  seizing 


"There  is  a  moment  of  awful  stillness  in  the  room."— page  130. 

131 


132  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Leslie  by  the  arm,  drags  her  toward  the  door  by  which  the 
others  have  escaped. 

"Go!"  he  says  fiercely,  "the  police  are  coming;  go,  for  the 
sake  of  the  name  you  bear,  for  your  husband's  sake,  go! 
go:  GO!" 

As  he  forces  her  resisting  form  across  the  threshold  she  turns 
upon  him  a  face  of  piteous  appeal. 

"  Alan  !     And  you—" 

His  lip  curls  scornfully. 

" I  am  not  a  woman"  he  says  impatiently ;  " go,  or — " 

Some  one  is  entering  at  the  outer  doorway.  He  pushes  her 
fiercely  out  into  the  rear  room,  from  which  he  knows  there  is 
a  means  of  exit,  closes  the  door,  and  turns  swiftly  to  face  the 
intruders. 

Silly  Charlie  has  crossed  the  threshold  just  in  time  to  see 
Leslie  as  she  disappears  through  the  opposite  door.  He  has 
one  swift  glimpse  of  the  fair  vanishing  face,  and  then  turns 
suddenly,  and  with  a  sound  indicative  of  extreme  terror, 
brings  himself  into  violent  contact  with  Van  Vernet  who  is 
close  behind. 

Before  he  has  so  much  as  obtained  a  glimpse  of  the  scene, 
Vernet  finds  his  legs  flying  from  under  him,  and  in  another 
moment  is  rolling  upon  the  floor,  closely  locked  in  the  embrace 
of  Silly  Charlie,  who,  in  his  terror,  seems  to  mistake  him  for 
an  enemy. 

When  he  has  finally  released  himself  from  the  grasp  of  the 
seeming  idiot,  and  is  able  to  look  about  him,  Van  Vernet  sees 
only  a  dead  man  upon  the  floor,  and  a  living  one  standing  at 
bay,  with  his  back  against  a  closed  door,  a  deal  table  before 
him  serving  as  barricade,  and,  in  his  hand,  a  bar  of  rusty  iron. 
There  is  no  trace  of  the  Francoises,  and  nothing  to  indicate 
the  recent  presence  of  Leslie  Warburton. 


A  DETECTIVE  TRAPPED.  133 

Struggling  away  from  the  embrace  of  Silly  Charlie,  and 
bringing  himself  slowly  to  his  feet,  Vernet  says  angrily: 

"You  confounded  idiot,  what  do  you  mean?" 

But  the  "  idiot"  only  sits  upon  the  floor  and  stares  stupidly, 
and  Vernet  turns  from  him  to  glance  about  the  room.  At 
sight  of  the  dead  man  he  starts  eagerly  forward. 

"  What's  this  ?"  he  queries  sharply,  glancing  down  at  the 
body  and  drawing  a  pistol  with  a  quick  movement.  "  A 
murder!"  And  he  levels  the  weapon  at  Alan,  dropping  upon 
one  knee,  at  the  same  instant,  and  with  the  unoccupied  hand 
touching  the  face  of  the  dead  man.  "A  murder!  yes;  and 
just  committed.  Don't  you  stir,  my  man,"  as  Alan  makes  a 
slight  movement,  "  I'm  a  dead  shot.  This  is  your  work,  and 
it  seems  that  we  heard  this  poor  fellow's  death-cry.  Skull 
crushed  in.  Done  by  that  bar  of  iron  in  your  hand,  of  course. 
Well,  you  won't  crack  any  more  skulls  with  that" 

While  Vernet  delivers  himself  thus,  Alan  Warburton  is 
thinking  vigorously,  his  eyes,  meanwhile,  roving  about  the 
room  in  search  of  some  avenue  of  escape  other  than  the  door 
over  which  he  stands  guard,  and  through  which,  he  is  resolved, 
the  detective  shall  not  pass,  at  least  until  Leslie  has  made 
good  her  escape  from  the  vicinity.  He  is  unarmed,  save  for 
the  bar  of  iron,  but  he  is  no  coward,  and  he  resolves  to  make 
a  fight  for  Leslie's  honor  and  his  own  liberty. 

Gazing  thus  about  him  he  sees  the  seeming  idiot  rise  from 
his  crouching  posture  and  creep  behind  Vernet,  beginning, 
over  that  officer's  shoulder,  a  series  of  strange  gestures. 

Shaking  his  fist  defiantly  behind  Vernet's  left  ear,  in  token, 
Alan  conjectures,  of  his  opposition  to  that  gentleman,  he  makes 
a  conciliatory  gesture  towards  Alan.  And  then,  placing  his 
fingers  upon  his  lips,  he  shakes  his  head,  and  points  again  to 


.234  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Vernet,  who  now  rises  from 'his  examination  of  the  body, 
and  calls  over  his  shoulder: 

"Charlie,  come  here." 

Leering  and  laughing,  Charlie  comes  promptly  forward. 

"Ugh!"  he  says,  making  a  detour  around  the  body  of 
Siebel,  "Charlie  was  scared.  Charlie  don't  like  dead  folks." 
And  he  plants  himself  squarely  before  Vernet,  grinning  and 
staring  al  Alan  the  while. 

"Out  of  my  range,  fool!"  cries  Vernet  angrily.  And 
then,  as  Charlie  springs  aside  with  absurd  alacrity,  he  says  to 
Alan :  "  Fellow,  throw  down  thnt  iron." 

But  Alan  Warburton  gives  no  sign  that  he  hears  the  com- 
mand. He  has  not  recognized  the  voice  of  Vernet,  and  is  not 
aware  of  the  man's  identity,  but  he  has  an  instinctive  notion 
that  his  address  will  not  be  in  keeping  with  his  nautical  cos- 
tume, and  he  is  not  an  adept  at  dissimulation. 

"You  won't  eh?"  pursues  Vernet  mockingly.  "You  are 
very  mum?  and  no  wonder." 

"Mum,  mum,"  chants  Silly  Charlie,  approaclnng  Alan 
with  gingerly  steps,  and  peering  curiously  into  his  face. 

Then  bending  suddenly  forward  he  whispers  quickly:  "Keep 
mum  !"  and  bursting  into  an  idiotic  laugh,  pirouettes  back  to' 
the  side  of  Vernet. 

"  Charlie,"  says  Vernet  suddenly,  and  without  once  remov- 
ing his  eyes  from  Alan's  face,  "put  your  hand  in  my  side 
pocket — no,  no!  the  other  one,"  as  Charlie  makes  a  sud- 
den dive  into  the  pocket  nearest  him.  "That's  right;  now 
pull  out  the  handcuffs,  and  take  out  the  rope." 

Charlie  obeys  eagerly,  and  examines  the  handcuffs  with 
evident  delight. 

"Charlie  "  says  Vernet,  "you  and  I  have  got  to  make  this 


A  DETECTIVE  TEAPPED.  135 

man  a  prisoner.  If  we  do,  you  will  get  your  star  and  uni- 
form." 

"Hooray!"  cries  Charlie,  fairly  dancing  with  delight. 
"Gimme,  gum — gimme  knife!" 

"Why,  the  blood-thirsty  fool!"  exclaims  Vernet.  "No, 
no,  Charlie;  we  must  put  on  these  handcuffs,  and  rope  his 
feet." 

"Hoop  la!"  cries  Charlie;  "gimme  rope." 

Seizing  the  rope  from  Vernet's  hand,  he  advances  toward 
Alan,  gesticulating  savagely.  Suddenly  Alan  raises  the  iron 
bar  and  menaces  him.  Charlie  stops  a  moment,  then  fling- 
ing aside  the  rope  he  makes  a  swift  spring,  hurling  himself 
upon  Alan  with  such  sudden  force  that  the  latter  loses  his 
guard  for  a  moment,  and  then  Van  Vernet  is  upon  him.  He 
makes  such  resistance  as  a  brave  man  may,  when  he  has  a 
single  hand  for  defence  and  two  against  him,  but  he  is  borne 
down,  handcuffed,  and  bound. 

As  he  lies  fettered  and  helpless,  in  close  proximity  to  the 
murdered  sneak  thief,  Alan  Warburton's  eyes  rest  wonder- 
iugly  upon  Silly  Charlie,  for  during  the  struggle  that  strange 
genius  has  contrived  to  whisper  in  his  ear  these  words : 

"Don't  resist — keep  silence — we  are  gaining  time  for  her!" 

"Charlie,"  says  Vernet,  "that's  a  good  bit  of  work,  and 
I'm  proud  of  you.  Now,  let's  make  our  prisoner  more  com- 
fortable." 

Together  they  lift  Alan,  and  place  him  in  a  chair  near  the 
centre  of  the  room.  Then,  finding  it  impossible  to  make  him. 
open  his  lips,  Van  Vernet  begins  a  survey  of  the  premises. 

"We  must  get  one  or  two  of  my  men  here,"  he  says,  after 
a  few  moments  of  silent  investigation.  "Charlie,  can  I  trust 
you  to  go  back  to  the  place  where  we  left  them?" 


136  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Charlie  nods  confidently,  and  makes  a  prompt  movement 
toward  the  door.  Then  suddenly  he  stops  and  points  upward 
with  a  half  terrified  air. 

"  Some  one's  up  there/'  he  whispers. 

"What's  that,  Charlie?" 

u  Somebody's  there.     Charlie  heard  'em." 

Van  Vernet  hesitates  a  moment,  looks  first  at  the  prisoner, 
then  at  Charlie,  and  slowly  draws  forth  his  dark  lantern. 

"  I'll  go  up  and  see/'  he  says  half  reluctantly,  and  making 
his  pistol  ready  for  use.  "  Watch  the  prisoner,  Charlie." 

But  Silly  Charlie  follows  Vernet's  movements  with  his 
eyes  until  he  has  passed  through  the  low  door  leading  to  the 
stairway.  Then,  gliding  stealthily  to  the  door,  he  assures 
himself  that  Vernet  is  already  half-way  up  the  stairs.  The 
next  moment  he  is  standing  beside  the  prisoner. 

"Hist,  Mr.  Wai-burton!" 

"Ah!  who — /'  Alan  Warburton  checks  himself  suddenly. 

"Hush!"  says  this  strangest  of  all  simpletons,  in  a  low 
whisper,  at  the  same  moment  beginning  to  work  rapidly  at 
the  rope  which  binds  Alan's  feet.  "  Be  silent  and  act  as  I 
bid  you ;  I  intend  to  help  you  out  of  this.  There,"  rising 
and  searching  about  his  person,  "the  ropes  are  loosened,  you 
can  shake  them  off  in  a  moment.  Now,  the  darbies." 

He  produces  a  key  which  unlocks  the  handcuffs. 

"  Now,  you  are  free,  but  remain  as  you  are  till  I  give  you 
the  signal, — ah !" 

The  tiny  key  has  slipped  through  his  fingers  and  fallen  to 
the  floor.  It  is  just  upon  the  edge  of  the  scrap  of  dirty  carpet; 
as  he  stoops  to  take  it  up,  it  catches  in  a  fringe,  and  in 
extricating  it  the  carpet  becomes  a  trifle  displaced. 

Something  underneath  it  strikes  the  eye  of  the  seeming 


A  DETECTIVE  TRAPPED.  137 

idiot.  He  bends  closer,  and  then  drags  the  carpet  quite  away, 
seizes  the  candle,  and  springs  the  trap  which  he  has  just  dis- 
covered. Holding  the  candle  above  the  opening,  he  looks 
down,  and  then,  with  a  low  chuckle,  spreads  the  carpet  smoothly 
over  it,  rises  to  his  feet,  a'iid  listens. 

He  hears  footsteps  crossing  the  rickety  floor  above.  Van 
Vernet,  having  failed  to  find  what  he  sought  for  aloft,  is  about 
to  descend. 

Stepping  quickly  to  Alan's   side,  Silly  Charlie  whispers: 

"Fortune  favors  us.     We  have  got  Vernet  trapped." 

"Vernet!"  Alan  Warburtou  starts  and  the  perspiration 
comes  out  on  his  forehead. 

Is  this  man  who  is  his  captor,  Van  Vernet?  Heavens ! 
what  a  complication,  what  a  misfortune!  And  this  other, — 
this  wisest  of  all  idiots,  who  calls  him  by  name ;  who  knows 
the  reason  for  his  presence,  then,  perhaps,  knows  Leslie  her- 
self; who,  without  any  motive  apparent,  is  acting  so  strange 
a  part,  who  is  he? 

Mentally  thanking  the  inspiration  which  led  him  to  retain 
his  incognito  while  negotiating  with  Van  Vernet,  Alan's  eyes 
..still  follow  the  movements  of  Silly  Charlie. 

As  he  gazes,  Vernet  enters  the  room,  a  look  of  disappoint- 
ment and  disgust  upon  his  face. 

"Charlie,  you  were  scared  at  the  rats,"  he  says;  "there's 
nothing  else  there." 

The  trap  is  directly  between  him  and  the  prisoner,  and  as 
he  walks  toward  it,  Silly  Charlie  fairly  laughs  with  delight. 

"What  are  you—" 

The  sentence  is  never  finished.  Vernet's  foot  has  pressed 
the  yielding  carpet;  he  clutches  the  air  wildly,  and  disappears 
like  a  clown  in  a  pantomine. 


138  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Now,"  \vhispers  Silly  Charlie,  "off  with  your  fetters,  War- 
burton,  and  I  will  guide  you  out  of  this  place.  You  are  not 
entirely  safe  yet."  • 

Up  from  the  trap  conies  a  yell  loud  enough  to  waken  the 
seven  sleepers,  and  suddenly,  from  without,  comes  an  answer- 
ing cry. 

"It's  Vernet's  men,"  says  Silly  Charlie.  "Now,  "Warbur- 
ton,  your  safety  depends  upon  your  wind  and  speed.  Come !" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  PROMISE  TO  THE  DEAD. 

Guided  by  Silly  Charlie,  Alan  Warburton  finds  himself 
hurrying  through  crooked  streets  and  dismal  alleys,  for  what 
seems  to  him  an  interminable  distance.  Now  they  run  for- 
ward swiftly ;  now  halt  suddenly,  while  Charlie  creeps  ahead 
to  reconnoiter  the  ground  over  which  they  must  go.  At  last 
they  have  passed  the  Rubicon,  and  halting  at  the  corner  of  a 
wider  street  than  any  they  have  as  yet  traversed,  Alan's  strange 
guide  says . 

"You are  tolerably  safe  now,  Mr.  "Warburton;  at  least  you 
are  not  likely  to  be  overtaken  by  Vernet  or  his  men.  You 
are  still  a  long  distance  from  home,  however,  and  possibly  the 
uuy  is  unfamiliar.  I  would  pilot  you  further,  but  must  hurry 
back  to  see  how  Vernet  is  coming  out." 

For   the   first  time   Alan  "Warburton,  the  self-possessed, 


"Vernet's  foot  has  pressed  the  yielding  carpet;  he  clutches  the  air 
wildly,  and  disappears." — page  137. 

139 


140  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

polished  man  of  society,  is  at  a  loss  for  words.  Society  has 
given  him  no  training,  taught  him  no  lessons  applicable  to 
such  emergencies  as  this. 

"Of  one  thing  you  must  be  warned,"  continues  the  guide. 
"  Van  Vernet  is  a  sleuth-hound  on  a  criminal  secret,  and  he 
considers  you  a  criminal.  He  i^as  seen  you  standing  above 
that  dead  man  with  a  bar  of  iron  in  your  hand — did  you  know 
that  bar  of  iron  was  smeared  with  blood,  and  that  wisps  of 
human  hair  clung  to  its  surface?  Never  mind;  /do  not  ac- 
cuse you.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  explain  your  presence  there. 
You  have  escaped  from  Van  Vernet,  and  he  will  never  for- 
give you  for  it.  He  will  hunt  you  down,  if  possible.  You 
know  the  man?" 

"I  never  saw  his  face  until  to-night." 

"  What !  and  yet,  two  hours  ago,  he  was  at  your  brother's 
house,  a  guest !" 

"True.  My  dear  sir,  I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you,  but  just 
now  my  gratitude  is  swallowed  up  in  amazement.  In  Heaven's 
name,  who  are  you,  that  you  know  so  much?" 

"'Silly  Charlie'  is  what  they  call  me  in  these  alleys,  and 
I  pass  for  an  idiot." 

"But  you  are  anything  but  what  you  'pass  for.'  You 
have  puzzled  me,  and  outwitted  Van  Vernet.  Tell  me  who 
you  are.  Tell  me  how  I  can  reward  your  services." 

"In  serving  you  to-night,  Mr.  Warburton,  I  have  also 
served  myself.  As  to  who  I  am,  it  cannot  matter  to  you." 

"That  must  be  as  you  will," — Alan  is  beginning  to  re- 
cover his  conventional  courtesy — "but  at  least  tell  me  how  I 
may  discharge  my  obligations  to  you.  That  does  concern 
me." 

Alan's  companion  ponders  a  moment,  and  then  says : 


A  PROMISE  TO  THE  DEAD.  141 

"  Perhaps  we  had  better  be  frank,  Mr.  Warburton.  You 
are  a  gentleman,  and,  I  trust,  so  am  I.  If  you  owe  me  any- 
thing, you  can  discharge  your  debt  by  answering  a  single 
question." 

"Ask  it." 

"Van  Vernet  was  a  guest  at  your  masquerade — why  was 
he  there?" 

The  question  startles  Alan  Warburton,  but  he  answers  after 
i  moment's  reflection : 

"  He  came  at  my  invitation,  and  on  a  matter  of  business." 

"And  yet  you  say  that  you  never  saw  his  face  before?" 

"True;  our  baslness  was  arranged  through  third  parties, 
and  by  correspondence.  He  came  into  my  presence,  for  the 
first  time,  masked.  Until  I  saw  his  face  in  that  hovel  yonder, 
I  had  never  seen  it." 

"  And  you  ?" 

"A  kind  fortune  has  favored  me.  This  dress  I  wore  as  a 
masquerade  costume;  over  it  I  threw  a  black  and  scarlet 
domino.  Van  Vernet  saw  me  in  that  domino,  and  with  a 
mask  before  my  face." 

"You  may  thank  your  stars  for  that,  and  for  your  silence 
at  the  hovel.  If  you  had  opened  your  lips  then,  your  voice 
might  have  betrayed  you." 

"It  would  have  betrayed  the  fact  that  I  was  no  seaman,  at 
the  least,  and  that  is  why  I  had  resolved  upon  silence  as  the 
safest  course." 

"You  have  come  out  of  this  night's  business  most  for- 
tunately. But  you  still  have  reason  to  fear  Vernet.  Your 
very  silence  may  cause  him  to  suspect  you  of  playing  a  part. 
Your  features  are  photographed  upon  his  memory ;  alter  the 
cut  of  your  whiskers  or,  better  still,  give  your  face  a  clean 


142  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

shave ;  crop  your  hair,  and  above  all  leave  the  city  until  this 
affair  blows  over." 

"Thank  you,"  Alan  replies;  "  I  feel  that  your  advice  is 
good."  Then,  after  a  struggle  with  his  pride,  he  adds : 

"I  could  easily  clear  myself  of  so  monstrous  a  charge  as 
that  which  Vernet  would  prefer  against  me,  but,  for  certain 
reasons,  I  would  prefer  not  to  make  a  statement  of  the  case." 

"I  comprehend." 

Again  Alan  is  startled  out  of  his  dignity.  "You  were  the 
first  to  arrive  in  response  to  that  cry  for  help  to-night?"  he 
begins. 

"The  first,  after  you." 

"  You  saw  those  who  fled  ?" 

"  I  saw  only  one  fugitive.  Mr.  Warburton,  I  know  what 
you  would  ask.  I  saw  and  recognized  your  brother's  wife. 
I  understood  your  actions ;  you  were  guarding  her  retreat  at 
the  risk  of  your  own  life  or  honor.  You  are  a  brave  man!" 

Alan's  tone  is  a  trifle  haughty  as  he  answers: 

"  In  knowing  Mrs.  Warburton  and  myself,  you  have  us  at 
a  disadvantage.  In  having  seen  us  as  you  saw  us  to-night, 
we  are  absolutely  in  your  power,  should  you  choose  to  be  un- 
scrupulous. IT nder  these  circumstances,  I  have  a  right  to  de- 
mand the  name  of  a  man  who  knows  me  so  intimately.  I 
have  a  right  to  know  why  you  followed  us,  or  me,  to  that 
house  to-night?" 

His  companion  laughs  good-naturedly. 

"In  spite  of  your  airs,  Mr.  Warburton/'  he  says  candidly, 
"you  would  be  a  fine  fellow  if  you  were  not — such  a  prig.  So 
you  demand  an  cxjil.iii.itioii.  Well,  here  it  is,  at  least  as  much 
as  you  will  need  to  enlighten  you.  Who  am  I?  I  am  a 
friend  to  all  honest  men.  Why  did  I  follow  you?  Neither 


A  PROMISE  TO  THE  DEAD.  .143 

Vernet  nor  myself  followed  you  or  the  lady.  Vernet  was 
there  as  the  leader  of  an  organized  Raid.  I  was  there — ahem ! 
as  a  pilot  for  Vernet.  You  were  there  as  a  spy  upon  the  lady. 
Mrs.  Warburton's  presence  remains  to  be  accounted  for.  And 
no\v,  Mr.  Warburton,  adieu.  You  are  out  of  present  danger ; 
if  I  find  that  Mrs.  Warburton  has  not  fared  so  well,  you  will 
hear  from  me  again.  If  otherwise,  you  look  your  last  upon 
Silly  Charlie." 

With  a  mocking  laugh  he  turns,  and  pausing  at  the  corner 
to  wave  his  hand  in  farewell,  lie  darts  away  in  the  direction 
whence  he  came. 

Puzzled,  chagrined,  his  brain  teeming  with  strange  thoughts, 
Alan  Warburton  turns  homeward. 

What  is  it  that  has  come  upon  him  this  night  ?  Less  than 
two  hours  ago,  an  aristocrat,  proud  to  a  fault,  with  an  un- 
blemished name,  and  with  nothing  to  fear  or  to  conceal.  Now, 
stealing  through  the  dark  streets  like  an  outcast,  his  pride 
humbled  to  the  dust,  his  breast  burdened  with  a  double  secret, 
accused  of  murder,  creeping  from  the  police,  a  hunted  man! 
To-morrow  the  town  will  be  flooded  with  descriptions  of  this 
escaped  sailor.  To-morrow  he  must  change  his  appearance, 
must  flee  the  city. 

And  all  because  of  his  zeal  for  the  family  honor;  all  because 
of  his  brother's  wife,  and  her  horrible  secret !  To-night 
charity  hath  no  place  in  Alan  Warburton's  heart. 

Meanwhile,  Van  Vernet,  covered  with  rags  and  dust, 
sickened  by  the  foul  smell  of  the  vault  into  which  he  has 
been  precipitated,  and  boiling  over  with  wrath,  is  being  rescued 
from  his  absurd  and  uncomfortable  position  by  three  police- 
men, who,  being  sent  forward  to  ascertain  if  possible  the  cause 


144  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

of  their  leader's  prolonged  absence,  have  stumbled  upon  him 
in  the  very  nick  of  time. 

As  he  emerges  from  the  trap,  by  the  aid  of  the  same  rope 
with  which  not  long  before  he  had  secured  Alan  Warburton's 
feet,  lie  presents  a  most  ludicrous  appearance.  His  hat  has 
been  lost  in  the  darkness  of  the  cellar,  and  his  head  is  plenti- 
"fully  decorated  with  rags  and  feathers,  which  have  adhered 
tenaciously  to  his  disarranged  locks.  He  is  smeared  with 
dirt,  pallid  from  the  stench,  nauseated,  chagrined,  wrathful. 

Instinctively  he  comprehends  the  situation.  The  simpleton 
has  played  him  false,  the  prisoner  has  escaped. 

On  the  floor  lie  the  handcuffs  which  Alan  \Varburton  has 
shaken  off  as  he  fled.  He  picks  them  up  and  examines  them 
eagerly.  Then  an  imprecation  breaks  from  his  lips.  They 
have  been  unlocked!  And  by  whom?  Not  by  the  man  who 
wore  them  ;  that  was  impossible. 

Suddenly,  flinging  down  the  handcuffs,  he  turns  to  the 
policemen. 

"  Two  men  have  escaped  from  this  house,  after  throwing 
me  into  that  cellar,"  he  says  rapidly.  "They  must  be  over- 
taken— a  sailor  and  a  pretended  simpleton  tricked  out  in  rags 
and  tinsel.  After  them,  boys;  out  by  that  door.  They  can't 
be  far  away.  Capture  them  alive  or  dead!" 

The  door  by  which  Alan  and  his  rescuer  made  their  exit 
stands  invitingly  open,  and  the  three  officers,  promptly  obeying 
their  leader,  set  off  in  pursuit  of  the  sailor  and  the  simpleton. 

Left  alone,  Van  Vernet  plucks  the  extempore  adornments 
from  his  head  and  person,  and  meditates  ruefully,  almost  for- 
getting the  original  Raid  in  the  chagrin  of  his  present  failure. 

He  goes  to  the  side  of  the  murdered  man,  who  still  lies  as 
he  had  fallen,  and  looks  down  upon  him. 


VERNET   DISCOMFITED.  145 

"Ah,  my  fine  fellow,"  he  mutters,  "  you  give  me  a  chance 
to  redeem  myself.  If  I  have  been  outwitted  to-night  by  a 
sailor  and  a  fool,  you  and  I  will  have  fine  revenge.  A  sailor ! 
Ah,  it  was  no  common  sailor,  if  I  may  trust  my  eyes  and 
my  senses.  The  hands  were  too  white  and  soft;  the  feet  too 
small  and  daintily  clad ;  the  face,  in  spite  of  the  low-drawn 
cap  and  the  tattooing,  was  too  aristocratic  and  too  clean.  And 
the  fool !  Ah,  it  is  no  common  fool  who  carries  keys  that 
unlock  our  new  patent  handcuffs,  and  who  managed  this  rescue 
so  cleverly.  For  once,  Van  Vernet  has  found  his  match ! 
But  the  scales  shall  turn.  The  man  who  killed  you,  my  lad, 
and  the  man  who  outwitted  me,  shall  be  found  and  punished, 
or  Van  Vernet  will  have  lost  his  skill!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

VERNET  DISCOMFITED. 

While  the  discomfited  Vernet  kept  watch  alone  with  the 
dead,  his  men  were  running  up  and  down  the  alleys,  listening, 
peering,  searching  in  by-places,  in  the  hope  of  finding  the 
hiding-place,  or  to  overtake  the  flight,  of  the  fugitive  sailor 
and  his  idiot  guide. 

More  than  an  hour  they  consumed  in  this  search,  and  then 
they  returned  to  their  superior  officer  to  report  their  utter 
failure. 

"  It  is  what  I  expected,"  said  Vernet,  with  severe  philosophy. 
"  Those  fellows  are  no  common  rascals.  They  have  spoiled 
our  liaid  j  before  this,  every  rogue  in  the  vicinity  has  been 


146  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

warned.  I  would  not  give  a  copper  for  all  we  can  capture 
now." 

And  Vernet  was  right,  the  Raid  was  a  failure.  Mustering 
his  men,  he  made  the  tour  of  the  streets  and  alleys,  but  every- 
where an  unnatural  silence  reigned.  The  Thieves'  Tavern 
was  fast  shut  and  quite  silent;  the  drinking  dens,  the  streets 
and  cellars,  where  riot  and  infamy  reigned,  were  under  the 
influence  of  a  silent  spell. 

It  was  only  the  yelp  of  a  dog,  heard  here  and  there  as  Silly 
Charlie  and  Alan  Warburton  sped  through  the  streets  and 
lanes,  but  its  effect  was  magical.  It  told  the  rioters,  the  crooks 
and  outlaws  in  hiding,  that  there  was  danger  abroad, — that 
the  police  were  among  them.  And  their  orgies  were  hushed, 
their  haunts  became  silent  and  tenantless;  while  every  man 
who  had  anything  to  fear  from  the  hands  of  justice — and  what 
man  among  them  had  not  ? — slunk  away  to  his  secret  hiding- 
place,  and  laid  a  fierce  clutch  upon  revolver  or  knife. 

The  Raid  was  an  utter  failure ;  and  Van  Vernet,  as  he  led 
his  men  ruefully  homeward,  little  dreamed  of  the  cause  of  the 
failure. 

This  night's  work,  which  had  been  pre-supposed  a  sure 
success,  had  been  spoiled  by  a  fool.  A  most  unusual  fool, — 
of  that  Vernet  was  fully  aware;  only  a  fool  as  he  played  his 
part.  But  he  had  played  it  successfully. 

Vernet  had  been  duped  by  this  seeming  idiot,  and  foiled  by 
the  sailor-assassin.  Of  this  he  savagely  assured  himself,  in 
the  depths  of  his  chagrin. 

But,  shrewd  man  as  he  was,  he  never  once  imagined  that 
under  the  rags  and  tinsel,  the  dirt  and  disfigurement  of  the 
fool,  the  strong  will  and  active  brain  of  Richard  Stanhope 
were  arrayed  against  him;  nor  dreamed  that  "Warburton,  the 


VEKNET  DISCOMFITED.  147 

aristocrat,"  the  man  who  had  wounded  his  pride  and  looked 
down  upon  him  as  an  inferior,  had  escaped  from  his  clutches 
in  the  garb  of  a  common  sailor. 

Arrived  at  head-quarters,  Vernet  laid  before  his  Chief  a 
full  report  of  the  night's  misadventures,  and  concluded  his 
narrative  thus: 

"  It  has  never  before  been  my  misfortune  to  report  so  com- 
plete a  failure.  But  the  affair  shall  not  end  here.  I  have 
my  theory;  I  intend  to  run  down  these  two  men,  and  I  be- 
lieve they  will  be  worth  the  trouble  I  shall  take  on  their  ac- 
count. They  were  both  shams,  I  am  sure.  The  sailor  never 
saw  a  masthead  ;  he  could  not  even  act  his  part.  The  other — 
well,  he  played  the  fool  to  perfection,  and — he  outwitted  me." 

One  thing  troubled  Vernet  not  a  little.  Richard  Stanhope 
did  not  make  a  late  appearance  at  the  Agency.  He  did  not 
come  at  all  that  night,  or  rather  that  morning.  And  Vernet 
speculated  much  as  to  the  possible  cause  of  this  long  delay. 

It  was  late  in  the  day  when  Stanhope  finally  presented  him- 
self, and  then  he  entered  the  outer  office  alert,  careless,  de- 
bonnaire  as  usual;  looking  like  a  man  with  an  untroubled 
conscience,  who  has  passed  the  long  night  in  peaceful  repose. 

Vernet,  who  had  arrived  at  the  office  but  a  moment  before, 
lifted  his  face  from  the  newspaper  he  held  and  cast  upon  his 
confrere  an  inquiring  glance. 

But  Dick  Stanhope  was  blind  to  its  meaning.  With  his 
usual  easy  morning  salutation  to  all  in  the  room,  he  passed 
them,  and  applied  for  admittance  at  the  door  of  his  Chiefs 
private  office.  It  was  promptly  opened  to  him,  and  he  walked 
into  the  presence  of  his  superior  as  jauntily  as  if  he  had  not, 
by  his  unaccountable  absence,  spoiled  the  most  important 
liaid  of  the  season. 


14b  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

It  was  a  long  interview,  and  as  toward  its  close  the  sounds 
of  uproarious  laughter  penetrated  to  the  ears  of  the  loungers 
in  the  outer  room,  Van  Vernet  bit  his  lip  with  vexation. 
Evidently  the  Chief  was  not  visiting  his  displeasure  too 
severely  upon  his  dilatory  favorite. 

Vernet's  cheeks  burned  as  he  realized  how  utterly  he  had 
failed.  Not  only  had  he  heaped  confusion  upon  himself,  but 
he  had  not  succeeded  in  lessening  Stanhope's  claim  to  favorit- 
ism by  bringing  upon  him  the  displeasure  of  the  Agency. 

While  he  sat,  still  tormented  by  this  bitter  thought,  Stan- 
hope re-entered  the  room,  and  walking  straight  up  to  Vernet 
brought  his  hand  down  upon  the  shoulder  of  that  gentleman 
with  emphatic  heartiness,  while  he  said,  his  eyes  fairly  danc- 
ing with  mischief,  and  every  other  feature  preternaturally 
solemn : 

"I  say,  Van,  old  fellow,  how  do  you  like  conducting  a 
Raid?" 

It  was  a  moment  of  humiliation  for  Van  Vernet.  But  he, 
like  Stanhope,  was  a  skilled  actor,  and  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the 
face  of  his  inquisitor  and  answered  with  a  careless  jest,  while 
he  realized  that  in  this  game  against  Richard  Stanhope  he 
had  played  his  first  hand,  and  had  lost. 

"It  shall  not  remain  thus,"  he  assured  himself  fiercely; 
"I'll  play  as  many  trumps  as  Dick  Stanhope,  before  our  little 
game  ends !" 

When  Walter  Parks  returned  from  his  two  days'  absence, 
and  called  at  the  office  to  receive  the  decisions  of  the  two 
detectives,  the  Chief  said: 

"You  may  consider  yourself  sure  of  both  men,  after  a  little. 
Dick  Stanhope,  whose  case  promised  to  be  a  very  short  one, 


VERNET  DISCOMFITED.  149 

has  asked  for  more  time.  And  Van  Vernet  is  in  hot  chase 
after  two  fly  fellows,  and  won't  give  up  until  they  are  trapped. 
You  may  be  sure  of  them  both,  however.  And  in  order  that 
they  may  start  fair,  after  their  present  work  is  done,  I  have 
arranged  that  you  meet  them  here  to-night,  and  let  them  listen 
together  to  your  statement." 

"I  like  the  idea,"  said  Walter  Parks  earnestly,  "and  I  will 
be  here  at  the  appointed  time." 

That  evening,  Vernet  and  Stanhope, — the  former  grave, 
courteous,  and  attentive;  the  latter  cool,  careless,  and  incon- 
sequent as  usual, — sat  listening  to  the  story  of  Arthur  Pear- 
son's mysterious  death,  told  with  all  its  details. 

As  the  tale  progressed,  Van  Vernet  became  more  attentive, 
more  eager,  his  eyes,  flashing  with  excitement,  following  every 
gesture,  noting  every  look  that  crossed  the  face  of  the  narrator. 
But  Dick  Stanhope  sat  in  the  most  careless  of  lounging  at- 
titudes; his  eyes  half  closed  or  wandering  idly  about  the 
room  ;  his  whole  manner  that  of  an  individual  rather  more 
bored  than  interested. 

"  It's  a  difficult  case,"  said  Van  Vernet,  when  the  story 
was  clone.  "  It  will  be  long  and  tedious.  But  as  soon  as  I 
have  found  the  man  or  men  I  am  looking  for,  I  will  under- 
take it.  And  if  the  murderer  is  above  ground,  I  do  not  an- 
ticipate failure." 

But  Stanhope  only  said : 

"  I  don't  know  when  I  shall  be  at  your  disposal.  The  affair 
I  have  in  hand  is  not  progressing.  Your  case  looks  to  me 
like  a  dubious  one, — the  chances  are  ninety  to  one  against  you. 
But  when  I  am  at  liberty,  if  Van  here  has  not  already  solved 
the  mystery,  I'll  do  my  level  best  for  you." 


150  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

CALLED  TO  ACCOUNT. 

It  was  a  long  road  for  a  woman  to  travel  at  that  unconven- 
tional hour,  but  Leslie  Warburton  was  fleet-footed,  and  fear 
and  excitement  lent  her  strength. 

Necessity  had  taught  her  how  to  enter  and  escape  from  the 
dangerous  maze  where  the  people  who  claimed  a  right  in  her 
existence  dwelt.  And  on  being  forced  to  flee  by  her  haughty 
brother-in-law,  she  bowed  her  head  and  wrapping  herself  in 
her  dark  cloak  sped  away  through  the  night. 

She  had  little  fear  of  being  missed  by  her  guests, — a  mas- 
querade affords  latitude  impossible  to  any  other  gathering, 
and  contrary  to  the  usual  custom,  the  maskers  were  to  continue 
their  incognito  until  the  cotillion  began.  If  her  guests  missed 
her,  she  would  be  supposed  to  be  in  some  other  apartment. 
If  she  were  missed  by  Winnie,  that  little  lady  would  say: 
"She  is  with  Archibald,  of  course." 

Nevertheless,  it  was  an  unsafe  journey.  But  she  accom- 
plished it,  and  arrived,  panting,  weary,  and  filled  with  a  terri- 
ble dread  at  the  thought  of  the  exposure  that  must  follow  her 
encounter  with  Alan. 

They  were  dancing  still,  her  light-hearted  guests,  and 
Leslie  resumed  her  Sunlight  robes,  and  going  back  to  her  place 
among  them  forced  herself  to  smile  and  seem  to  be  gay,  while 
her  heart  grew  every  moment  heavier  with  its  burden  of  fear 
and  dire  foreboding. 

Anxiously  she  watched  the  throng,  hoping,  yet  dreading,  to 


CALLED  TO  ACCOUNT.  151 

see  the  sailor  costume  of  Alan,  fearing  lest,  in  spite  of  his 
high  courage,  disaster  had  overtaken  him. 

It  was  in  the  grey  of  morning,  and  her  guests  were  dispers- 
ing, when  Alan  Warborton  reappeared.  He  was  muffled  as 
at  first,  in  the  black  and  scarlet  domino,  and  he  moved  with 
the  slow  languor  of  one  utterly  exhausted  or  worn  with  pain. 

At  length  it  was  over ;  the  last  guest  had  departed,  the  house 
was  silent,  and  Leslie  and  Alan  stood  face  to  face  under  the 
soft  light  of  the  library  chandelier. 

During  the  ceremonies  of  departure,  he  had  remained  con- 
stantly near  her.  And  when  they  were  left,  at  last,  with  only 
Winnie  French  beside  them,  Leslie,  seeing  that  the  interview 
was  inevitable,  had  asked  Winnie  to  look  in  upon  little  Daisy, 
adding,  as  the  girl,  with  a  gay  jest,  turned  to  go: 

"  I  will  join  you  there  soon,  Winnie,  dear ;  just  now  Alan 
and  I  have  a  little  to  say  about  some  things  that  have  occurred 
to-night." 

Tossing  a  kiss  to  Leslie,  and  bestowing  a  grimace  upon  Alan 
as  he  held  open  the  door  for  her  exit,  Winnie  had  pirouetted 
out  of  the  room,  and  sped  up  the  broad  stairway  as  fleetly  as 
if  her  little  feet  were  not  weary  with  five  hours'  dancing. 

Then  Leslie,  with  a  stately  gesture,  had  led  the  way  to  the 
library. 

Silently,  and  as  if  by  one  accord,  they  paused  under  the 
chandelier,  and  each  gazed  into  the  face  of  the  other. 

His  eyes  met  hers,  stern,  accusing,  and  darkened  with  pain; 
while  she — her  bearing  was  proud  as  his,  her  face  mournful, 
her  eyes  resolute,  her  lips  set  in  firm  lines.  She  looked  neither 
criminal  nor  penitent ;  she  was  a  woman  driven  to  bay,  and 
she  would  fight  rather  than  flee. 

Looking  him  full  in  the  face,  she  made  no  effort  to  break 


152  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

the  silence.     Seeing  which,  Alan  Warburton  said : 

"  Madam,  you  play  your  part  well.  You  are  not  now  the 
nocturnal  wanderer  menaced  by  a  danger — " 

"From  which  you  rescued  me,"  she  interrupts,  her  face 
softening.  "Alan,  it  was  a  brave  deed,  and  I  thank  you  a 
thousand  times !" 

"I  do  not  desire  your  gratitude,  Madam.  I  could  have 
done  no  less,  and  would  do  yet  more  to  save  from  disgrace 
the  name  we  bear  in  common.  Was  your  absence  noted ?  Did 
you  return  safely  and  secretly?" 

"I  have  not  been  missed,  and  I  returned  as  safely  and  as 
secretly  as  I  went." 

Her  voice  was  calm,  her  countenance  had  hardened  as  at 
first. 

"  Madam,  let  us  understand  each  other.  One  year  ago  the 
name  of  Warburton  had  never  known  a  stain;  now — " 

He  let  the  wrath  in  his  eyes,  the  scorn  in  his  face,  finish 
what  his  lips  left  unsaid. 

But  the  eyes  of  his  beautiful  opponent  flashed  him  back 
scorn  for  scorn. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  with  calm  contempt  in  her  voice,  "  now, 
the  proudest  man  of  the  Warburton  race  has  stepped  down 
from  his  pedestal  to  play  the  spy,  and  upon  a  woman !  I 
thank  you  for  rescuing  me,  Alan  Warburton,  but  I  have  no 
thanks  to  offer  for  that  /" 

"A  spy!"  He  winced  as  his  lips  framed  the  word.  "We 
are  calling  hard  names,  Mrs.  Warburton.  If  I  was  a  spy  in 
that  house,  what  were  you!  I  have  been  a  spy  upon  your 
actions,  and  I  have  seen  that  which  has  caused  me  to  blush 
for  my  brother's  wife,  and  tremble  for  my  brother's  honor. 
More  than  once  I  have  seen  you  leave  this  house,  and  return 


CALLED  TO  ACCOUNT.  153 

to  it,  clandestinely.  It  was  one  of  these  secret  expeditions, 
which  I  discovered  by  the  merest  chance,  that  aroused  my 
watchfulness.  More  than  once  have  letters  passed  to  and  fro 
through  some  disreputable-looking  messenger.  To-night,  for 
the  first  time,  I  discovered  where  you  paid  your  visits,  but  not 
to  whom.  To-night  I  traced  you  to  the  vilest  den  in  all  the 
city.  Madam,  this  mystery  must  be  cleared  up.  What 
wretched  secret  have  you  brought  into  my  brother's  house? 
What  sin  or  shame  are  you  hiding  under  his  name  ?  What 
is  this  disgrace  that  is  likely  to  burst  upon  us  at  any  moment?" 

Slowly  she  moved  toward  him,  looking  straight  into  his 
angry,  scornful  face.  Slowly  she  answered: 

"Alan  Warburton,  you  have  appointed  yourself  my  accuser; 
you  shall  not  be  my  judge.  I  am  answerable  to  you  for  noth- 
ing. From  this  moment  I  owe  you  neither  courtesy  nor 
gratitude.  I  have  a  secret,  but  it  shall  be  told  to  my  husband, 
not  to  you.  If  I  have  done  wrong,  I  have  wronged  him,  not 
you.  You  have  insulted  me  under  my  own  roof  to-night, 
for  the  last  time.  I  will  tell  my  story  to  Archibald  now;  he 
shall  judge  between  us." 

She  turned  away,  but  he  laid  a  detaining  hand  upon  her 
arm. 

"Stop!"  he  said,  "you  must  not  go  to  Archibald  with  this; 
you  shall  not!" 

"  Shall  not !"  she  exclaimed  scornfully ;  "  and  who  will  pre- 
vent it?" 

"  I  will  prevent  it.  Woman,  have  you  neither  heart  nor 
conscience  ?  Would  you  add  murder  to  your  list  of  trans- 
gressions ?" 

"Let  me  go,  Alan  Warburton,"  she  answered  impatiently; 
"I  have  done  with  you." 


154  DAtfGEROtJS  GBOtim 

"But  I  have  not  done  with  you!  Oh,  you  know  my 
brother  well ;  he  is  trusting,  confiding,  blind  where  you  are 
concerned.  He  believes  in  your  truth,  and  he  must  continue 
so  to  believe.  He  must  not  hear  of  this  night's  work." 

"  But  he  shall ;  every  word  of  it." 

"  Every  word !  Take  care,  Mrs.  Warburton.  Will  you 
tell  him  of  the  lover  who  was  here  to-night,  disguised  as  a 
woman,  the  better  to  hover  about  you?" 

"You  wretch!"  She  threw  off  his  restraining  hand  and 
turned  upon  him,  her  eyes  blazing.  Then,  after  a  moment, 
the  fierce  look  of  indignation  gave  place  to  a  smile  of  con- 
tempt. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  turning  again  toward  the  door,  "I  shall 
tell  him  of  that  too." 

"Then  you  will  give  him  his  death-blow;  understand  that ! 
Yesterday,  when  his  physician  visited  him,  he  told  us  the 
truth.  Archibald's  life  is  short  at  best;  any  shock,  any  strong 
emotion  or  undue  excitement,  will  cause  his  death.  Quiet 
and  rest  are  indispensable.  To-morrow — to-day,  you  were  to 
be  told  these  things.  By  Archibald's  wish  they  were  withheld 
from  you  until  now,  lest  they  should  spoil  your  pleasure  in 
the  masquerade." 

The  last  words  were  mockingly  uttered,  but  Leslie  paid  no 
heed  to  the  tone. 

"Are  you  telling  me  the  truth?"  she  demanded.  "Must  I 
play  my  part  still  ?" 

"  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  You  must  continue  to  play 
your  part,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned.  For  his  sake  I  ask  you 
to  trust  me.  You  bear  our  name,  our  honor  is  in  your  keep- 
ing. Whatever  your  faults,  your  misdeeds,  have*  been,  they 
must  be  kept  secrets  still.  I  ask  you  to  trust  me, — not  that 


CALLED  TO  ACCOUNT.  155 

I  may  denounce  you,  but  to  enable  me  to  protect  us  all  from 
the  consequences  of  your  follies." 

If  the  words  were  conciliatory,  the  tone  was  hard  and 
stern.  Alan  Warburton  could  ill  play  the  role  he  had  under- 
taken. 

The  look  she  now  turned  upon  him  was  one  of  mingled 
wonder  and  scorn. 

"You  are  incomprehensible/'  she  said.  "  I  am  gratified  to 
know  that  it  was  not  my  life  nor  my  honor,  but  your  own 
name,  that  you  saved  to-night, — it  lessens  my  obligation. 
Being  a  woman,  I  am  nothing;  being  a  Warburton,  disgrace 
must  not  touch  me!  So  be  it.  If  I  may  not  confide  in  my 
husband,  I  will  keep  my  own  counsel  still.  And  if  I  can- 
not master  my  trouble  alone,  then,  perhaps,  as  a  last  resort, 
and  for  the  sake  of  the  Warburton  honor,  I  will  call  upon  you 
for  aid." 

There  was  no'  time  for  a  reply.  While  the  last  words  were 
yet  on  her  lips,  the  heavy  curtains  were  thrust  hastily  aside  and 
Winnie  French,  pallid  and  trembling,  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  Leslie !  Alan !"  she  cried,  coming  toward  them  with  a  sob 
in  her  throat,  "  we  have  lost  little  Daisy !" 

"Lost  her!" 

Alan  Warburton  uttered  the  two  words  as  one  who  does 
not  comprehend  their  meaning.  But  Leslie  stood  transfixed, 
like  one  stunned,  yet  not  startled,  by  an  anticipated  blow. 

"We  have  hunted  everywhere,"  Winnie  continued  wildly. 
"She  is  not  in  the  house,  she  is  not — " 

She  catches  her  breath  at  the  cry  that  breaks  from  Leslie's 
lips,  and  for  a  moment  those  three,  their  festive  garments  in 
startling  contrast  with  their  woe-stricken  faces,  regard  each 
other  silently. 


156  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Then  Leslie,  overcome  at  last  by  the  accumulating  horrors 
of  this  terrible  night,  sways,  gasps,  and  falls  forward,  pallid 
and  senseless,  at  Alan  Warburton's  feet. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

BETRAYED  BY  A  PICTURE. 

Little  Daisy  Warburton  was  missing.  The  blow  that  had 
prostrated  Leslie  at  its  first  announcement,  struck  Archibald 
Warburton  with  still  heavier  force.  It  was  impossible  to 
keep  the  truth  from  him,  and  when  it  became  known,  his 
feeble  frame  would  not  support  the  shock.  At  day-dawn,  he 
lay  in  a  death-like  lethargy.  At  night,  he  was  raving  with 
delirium.  And  on  the  second  day,  the  physicians  said : 

"There  is  no  hope.     His  life  is  only  a  thing  of  days.'' 

Leslie  and  Alan  were  faithful  at  his  bedside, — she,  the 
tenderest  of  nurses;  he,  the  most  sleepless  of  watchers.  But 
they  avoided  an  interchange  of  word  or  glance.  To  all 
appearance,  they  had  lost  sight  of  themselves  in  the  presence 
of  these  new  calamities — Archibald's  hopeless  condition,  and 
the  loss  of  little  Daisy. 

No  time  had  been  wasted  in  prosecuting  the  search  for  the 
missing  child.  When  all  had  been  done  that  could  be  done, 
— when  monstrous  rewards  had  been  offered,  when  the  police 
were  scouring  the  city,  and  private  detectives  were  making 
careful  investigations, — Leslie  and  Alan  took  their  places  at 
the  bedside  of  the  stricken  father,  and  waited,  the  heart  of 
each  heavy  with  a  burden  of  unspoken  fear  and  a  new,  terrible 
suspicion. 


"Leslie  I    A.]an\"   she  cried,  coming  toward  them  with  &  sob  in  her 
ihroat,  "  we  have  lost  little  Daisy  1 " — page  155. 

157 


158  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

So  two  long,  dreary  days  passed  away,  with  no  tidings 
from  the  lost  and  no  hope  for  the  dying. 

During  these  two  days,  Van  Veruet  and  Richard  Stanhope 
were  not  idle. 

The  struggle  between  them  had  commenced  on  the  night 
of  the  masquerade,  and  now  there  would  be  no  turning  back 
until  the  one  became  victor,  the  other  vanquished. 

Having  fully  convinced  himself  that  Vernet  had  deliberately 
ignored  all  their  past  friendship,  and  taken  up  the  cudgel 
against  him,  for  reward  and  honor,  Stanhope  resolved  at  least 
to  vindicate  himself;  while  Vernet,  dominated  by  his  am- 
bition, had  for  his  watchword,  "success!  success!" 

Fully  convinced  that  behind  that  which  was  visible  at  the 
Francoise  hovel,  lay  a  mystery,  Vernet  resolved  upon  fathom- 
ing that  mystery,  and  he  set  to  work  with  rare  vigor. 

Having  first  aroused  the  interest  of  the  authorities  in  the 
case,  Vernet  caused  three  rewards  to  be  offered.  One  for  the 
apprehension  of  the  murderer  of  the  man  who  had  been 
identified  as  one  Josef  Siebel,  professional  rag-picker,  and  of 
Jewish  extraction,  having  a  sister  who  ran  a  thieving  "old 
clo'  "  business,  and  a  brother  who  kept  a  disreputable  pawn 
shop. 

The  second  and  third  rewards  were  for  the  arrest  of,  or  in- 
formation concerning,  the  fellow  calling  himself  "Silly 
Charlie,"  and  the  parties  who  had  occupied  the  hovel  up  to 
the  night  of  the  murder. 

These  last  "rewards"  were  accompanied  by  such  descrip- 
tions of  Papa  and  Mamma  Francoise  as  Vernet  could  obtain 
at  second-hand,  and  by  more  accurate  descriptions  of  the  Sailor, 
and  Silly  Charlie. 

Rightly  judging  that  sooner  or  later  Papa  Francoise,  or 


BETRAYED  BY  A  PICTURE.  159 

some  of  his  confederates,  would  attempt  to  remove  the  con- 
cealed booty  from  the  deserted  hovel, — which,  upon  being 
searched,  furnished  conclusive  proof  that  buying  rags  at  a 
bargain  was  not  Papa's  sole  occupation, — Van  Vernet  set  a 
constant  watch  upon  the  house,  hoping  thus  to  discover  the 
new  hiding-place  of  the  two  Francoise's.  Having  accom- 
plished thus  much,  he  next  turned  his  attention  to  his  affairs 
•  with  the  aristocrat  of  Warburton  place. 

This  matter  he  now  looked  upon  as  of  secondary  importance, 
and  on  the  second  day  of  Archibald  Warburton's  illness  he 
turned  his  steps  toward  the  mansion,  intent  upon  bringing  his 
"simple  bit  of  shadowing"  to  a  summary  termination. 

He  had  gathered  no  new  information  concerning  Mrs. 
Warburton  and  her  mysterious  movements,  nevertheless  he 
knew  how  to  utilize  scant  items,  and  the  time  had  come  when 
he  proposed  to  make  Richard  Stanhope's  presence  at  the 
masquerade  play  a  more  conspicuous  part  in  the  investigation 
which  he  was  supposed  to  be  vigorously  conducting. 

The  silence  and  gloom  that  hung  over  the  mansion  was  too 
marked  to  pass  unnoticed  by  so  keen  an  observer. 

Wondering  as  to  the  cause,  Vernet  pulled  the  bell,  and 
boldly  handed  his  professional  card  to  the  serious-faced  foot- 
man who  opened  the  door. 

In  obedience  to  instructions,  the  servant  glanced  at  the  card, 
and  reading  thereon  the  name  and  profession  of  the  applicant, 
promptly  admitted  him,  naturally  supposing  him  to  be  con- 
nected with  the  search  for  little  Daisy. 

"Tell  your  master,"  said  Verncr,  rv  ];••>  was  ushered  into  the 
library,  "tell  your  master  that  I  !•••-  v  him  at  once.  My 
business  is  urgent,  and  my  time  limi.eci. ; 

The  servant  turned  upon  him  a  look  of  surprise. 


160  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Archibald  Warburton,  sir  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then  it  will  be  impossible.  Mr.  Warburton  has  been 
dangerously  sick  since  yesterday.  The  shock — Mr.  Alan  re- 
ceives all  who  have  business." 

Mentally  wondering  what  the  servant  could  mean,  for  in 
the  intensity  of  his  interest  in  his  new  search,  he  had  not  in- 
formed himself  as  to  the  late  happenings  that  usually  attract 
the  attention  of  all  connected  with  the  police,  and  was  not 
a  ware  of  the  disappearance  of  Archibald  Warburton's  little 
daughter,  Vernet  said  briefly,  and  as  if  he  perfectly  understood 
it  all: 

"  Nevertheless,  you  may  deliver  my  message." 

Somewhat  overawed  by  the  presence  of  this  representative 
of  justice,  the  servant  went  as  bidden,  and  in  another  moment 
stood  before  Alan  Warburton,  presenting  the  card  of  the  de- 
tective and  delivering  his  message. 

Alan  Warburton  started  at  sight  of  the  name  upon  the  card, 
and  involuntarily  turned  his  gaze  toward  the  mirror.  The 
face  reflected  there  was  not  the  face  we  saw  unmasked,  for  a 
moment,  at  the  masquerade.  The  brown  moustache  and  glossy 
beard,  the  abundant  waving  hair,  were  gone.  To  the  wonder 
and  disapproval  of  all  in  the  house,  Alan  had  appeared  among 
them,  on  the  morning  following  the  masquerade,  with  smooth- 
shaven  face  and  close-cropped  hair,  looking  like  a  boy-gradu- 
ate, rather  than  the  distinguished  man  of  the  world  he  had 
appeared  on  the  previous  day. 

Van  Vernet  had  seen  his  bearded  face  but  once,  and  there 
was  little  cause  to  fear  a  recognition ;  nevertheless,  recalling 
Stanhope's  warning,  Alan  chose  the  better  part  of  valor,  and 
said  calmly : 


BETRAYED  BY  A  PICTURE.  161 

"Tell  the  person  that  Mr.  Warburton  is  so  ill  that  his  life 
is  despaired  of,  and  that  he  is  quite  incapable  of  transacting 
business.  He  cannot  see  him  at  present." 

Wondering  somewhat  at  this  cavalier  message,  the  servant 
retraced  his  steps,  and  Alan  returned  to  the  sick-room,  mur- 
muring as  he  went: 

"It  seems  the  only  way.  I  dare  not  trust  my  voice  in 
conversation  with  that  man.  For  our  honor's  sake,  my  dying 
brother  must  be  my  representative  still." 

And  then,  as  his  eye  rested  upon  Leslie,  sitting  by  the  bed- 
side pale  and  weary,  a  thrill  of  aversion  swept  over  him  as  he 
thought : 

"  But  for  her,  and  her  wretched  intrigue,  I  should  have  no 
cause  to  deceive,  and  no  man's  scrutiny  to  fear." 

Alas  for  us  who  have  secrets  to  keep ;  we  should  be  "  as 
wise  as  serpents,"  and  as  farseeing  as  veritable  seers. 

While  Alan  Warburton,  above  stairs,  was  congratulating 
himself,  believing  that  he  had  neglected  nothing  of  prudence 
or  precaution,  Van  Vernet,  below  stairs,  was  grasping  a  clue 
by  which  Alan  Warburton  might  yet  be  undone. 

Reentering  the  library,  the  servant  found  Vernet,  his  cheeks 
flushed,  his  eyes  ablaze  with  excitement,  standing  before  an 
easel  which  upheld  a  life-sized  portrait — a  new  portrait,  re- 
cently finished  and  just  sent  home,  and  as  like  the  original,  as 
he  had  appeared  on  yesterday,  as  a  picture  could  be  like  life. 

When  the  servant  had  delivered  his  message,  and  without 
paying  the  slightest  heed  to  its  purport,  Vernet  demanded, 
almost  fiercely : 

"Who  is  the  original  of  that  portrait?" 

"That,  sir,"  said  the  servant,  "is  Mr.  Alan  Warburton." 


162  DANGEKOUS  GROUND. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  PROMISE  TO  THE  DYING. 

Paying  no  further  heed  to  the  servant,  and  much  to  the 
surprise  of  that  functionary,  Van  Vernet  turned  his  gaze  back 
upon  the  picture,  and  looked  long  and  intently,  shifting  his 
position  once  or  twice  to  obtain  a  different  view.  Then  taking 
up  his  hat,  he  silently  left  the  house,  a  look  of  mingled  elation 
and  perplexity  upon  his  face. 

"  It's  the  same!"  he  thought,  as  he  hurried  away;  "  it's  the 
same  face,  or  a  most  wonderful  resemblance.  Allow  for  the 
difference  made  by  the  glazed  cap,  the  tattoo  marks  and  the 
rough  dress,  and  it's  the  very  same  face  !  It  seems  incredible, 
but  I  know  that  such  impossibilities  often  exist.  What  is 
there  in  common  between  Mr.  Alan  \Varburtou,  aristocrat, 
and  a  nameless  sailor,  with  scars  upon  his  face  and  blood  upon 
his  hands?  The  same  face,  certainly,  and — perhaps  the  same 
delicate  hands  and  dainty  feet.  It  may  be  only  a  resemblance, 
but  I'll  see  this  Alan  Warburton,  and  I'll  solve  the  mystery, 
of  that  Francoise  hovel  yet." 

While  Van  Vernet  thus  soliloquizes  over  his  startling  dis- 
covery, we  will  follow  the  footsteps  of  Richard  Stanhope. 

He  is  walking  away  from  the  more  bustling  portion  of  the 
city,  and  turning  into  a  quiet,  home-like  street,  pauses  before 
a  long,  trim-looking  building,  turns  a  moment  to  gaze  about 
him  in  quest  of  possible  observers,  and  then  enters. 

It  is  a  hospital,  watched  over  by  an  order  of  noble  women, 


A  PROMISE  TO  THE  DYING.  163 

and  affording  every  relief  and  comfort  to  the  suffering  ones 
within  its  walls. 

Passing  the  offices  and  long  wards,  he  goes  on  until  he  has 
reached  a  private  room  in  the  rear  of  the  building.  Here 
coolness  and  quiet  reign,  and  a  calm-faced  woman  is  sitting 
beside  a  cot,  upon  which  a  sick  man  tosses  and  mutters 
feverishly.  It  is  the  ex-convict  who  was  rescued  from  the 
Thieves'  Tavern  by  Stanhope,  only  a  few  nights  ago. 

"How  is  your  patient?"  queries  the  detective,  approaching 
the  bed  and  gazing  down  upon  the  man  whom  he  has  be- 
friended. 

"  He  has  not  long  to  live,"  replies  the  nurse.  "  I  am  glad 
you  are  here,  sir.  In  his  lucid  moments  he  asks  for  you  con- 
stantly. His  delirium  will  pass  soon,  I  think,  and  he  will 
have  a  quiet  interval.  I  hope  you  will  remain." 

"  I  will  stay  as  long  as  possible,"  Stanhope  says,  seating 
himself  by  the  bed.  "  But  I  have  not  much  time  to  spare  to- 
night." 

The  dying  man  is  living  his  childhood  over  again.  He 
matters  of  rolling  prairies,  waving  trees,  sweeping  storms, 
and  pealing  thunder.  He  laughs  at  the  review  of  some  pleas- 
ing scene,  and  then  cries  out  in  terror  as  some  vision  of  horror 
comes  before  his  memory. 

And  while  he  mutters,  Richard  Stanhope  listens — at  first 
idly,  then  curiously,  and  at  last  with  eager  intensity,  bending 
forward  to  catch  every  word. 

Finally  he  rises,  and  crossing  the  room  deposits  his  hat 
upon  a  table,  and  removes  his  light  outer  coat. 

"  I  shall  stay,"  he  says  briefly.     "  How  long  wilfhe  live?" 

"  He  cannot  last  until  morning,  the  surgeon  says." 

"I  will  stay  until  the  end," 


164  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

He  resumes  his  seat  and  his  listening  attitude.  It  is  sunset 
when  his  watch  begins ;  the  evening  passes  away,  and  still  the 
patient  mutters  and  moans. 

It  is  almost  midnight  when  his  mutterings  cease,  and  he 
falls  into  a  slumber  that  looks  like  death. 

At  last  there  comes  an  end  to  the  solemn  stillness  of  the 
room.  The  dying  man  murmurs  brokenly,  opens  his  eyes 
with  the  light  of  reason  in  them  once  more,  and  recognizes  his 
benefactor. 

"  You  see — I  was — right,"  he  whispers,  a  wan  smile  upon 
his  face;  "  I  am  going  to  die." 

He  labors  a  moment  for  breath,  and  then  says : 

"  You  have  been  so  good — will — will  you  do  one  thing — 
more?" 

"If  I  can." 

"  I  want  my — mother  to  know — I  am  dead.     She  was  not 

-always  good — but  she  was — my  mother." 

"  Tell  me  her  name,  and  where  to  find  her  ?" 

The  voice  of  the  dying  man  sinks  lower.  Stanhope  bends 
to  catch  the  whispered  reply,  and  then  asks : 

"Can  you  answer  a  few  questions  that  I  am  anxious  to 
put  to  you  ?" 

«Y— yes." 

"  Now  that  you  know  yourself  dying,  are  you  willing  to 
tell  me  anything  I  may  wish  to  know?" 

"You  are  the — only  man — who  was  ever — merciful  to  me," 
said  the  dying  man.  "I  will  tell  you — anything." 

Turning  to  the  nurse,  Stanhope  makes  a  sign  which  she  un- 
derstands, and,  nodding  a  reply,  she  goes  softly  from  the  room. 

AVhen  Richard  Stanhope  and  the  dying  man  are  left  alone, 
tjie  detective  bends  his  head  close  to  the  pillows,  and  the 


A  BUSINESS  CALL.  165 

questions  asked,  aud  the  answers  given,  are  few  and  brief. 

Suddenly  the  form  upon  the  bed  becomes  convulsed,  the 
eyes  roll  wildly  and  then  fix  themselves  upon  Stanhope's  face. 

"  You  promise,"  gasps  the  death-stricken  man,  "  you  will 
tell  them—" 

The  writhing  form  becomes  limp  and  lifeless,  the  eyes  take 
on  a  glassy  stare,  and  there  is  a  last  fluttering  breath. 

Richard  Stanhope  closes  the  staring  eyes,  and  speaks  his 
answer  in  the  ears  of  the  dead. 

"  I  will  tell  them,  poor  fellow,  at  the  right  time,  but — be- 
fore my'duty  to  the  dead,  comes  a  duty  to  the  living !" 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  BUSINESS  CALL. 

It  was  grey  dawn  when  Stanhope  left  the  hospital  and 
turned  his  face  homeward,  and  then  it  was  not  to  sleep,  but 
to  pass  the  two  hours  that  preceded  his  breakfast-time  in  pro- 
found meditation. 

Seated  in  a  lounging-chair,  with  a  fragrant  cigar  between 
his  lips,  he  looked  the  most  care-free  fellow  in  the  world. 
But  his  active  brain  was  absorbed  in  the  study  of  a  profound 
problem,  and  he  was  quite  oblivious  to  all  save  that  problem's 
solution. 

Whatever  the  result  of  his  meditation,  he  ate  his  breakfast 
with  a  keen  relish,  and  a  countenance  of  serene  content,  and 
then  set  off  for  a  morning  call  upon  Mr.  Follingsbee. 

He  found  that  legal  gentleman  preparing  to  walk  down  to 


166  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

I) is  office;  and  after  an  interchange  of  salutations,  the  two 
turned  their  faces  town  ward  together. 

"  Well,  Stanhope,"  said  the  lawyer,  linking  his  arm  in  that 
of  the  detective  with  friendly  familiarity,  "how  do  you 
prosper  ?" 

"  Very  well ;  but  I  must  have  an  interview  with  Mrs. 
Warburton  this  morning." 

"  Phew !  and  you  want  me  to  manage  it  ?" 

"Yes." 

The  lawyer  considered  a  moment. 

"You  know  that  the  Warburtons  are  overwhelmed  with 
calamity  ?"  he  said. 

Stanhope  glanced  sharply  from  under  his  lashes,  ana  then 
asked  carelessly: 

"Of  what  nature?" 

"  Archibald  Warburton  lies  dying;  his  little  daughter  has 
been  stolen." 

"What!"  The  detective  started,  then  mastering  his  sur- 
prise, said  quietly:  "Tell  me  about  it." 

Briefly  the  lawyer  related  the  story  as  he  knew  it,  and  then 
utter  silence  fell  between  them,  while  Richard  Stanhope  lost 
himself  in  meditation.  At  last  he  said : 

"It's  a  strange  state  of  affairs,  but  it  makes  an  immediate 
interview  with  the  lady  doubly  necessary.  Will  you  arrange 
it  at  once?" 

"You  are  clever  at  a  disguise:  can  you  make  yourself  look 
like  a  gentleman  of  my  cloth?" 

"  Easily,"  replied  Stanhope,  with  a  laugh. 

"Then  I'll  send  Leslie — Mrs.  Warburton,  a  note  at  once, 
and  announce  the  coming  of  myself  and  a  friend,  on  a  matter 
of  business." 


A  BUSINESS  CALL.  167 

An  hour  later,  a  carriage  stopped  before  the  Warburton 
doorway,  and  two  gentlemen  alighted. 

The  first  was  Mr.  Follingsbee,  who  carried  in  his  hand  a 
packet  of  legal-looking  papers.  The  other  was  a  trim,  prim, 
middle-aged  gentleman,  tightly  buttoned-up  in  a  spotless 
frock  coat,  and  looking  preternaturally  grave  and  severe. 

They  entered  the  house  together,  and  the  servant  took  up 
to  Leslie  the  cards  of  Mr.  Follingsbee  and  "S.  Richards,  at- 
torney." 

With  pale,  anxious  face,  heavy  eyes,  and  slow,  dragging 
steps.  Leslie  appeared  before  them,  and  extended  her  hand  to 
Mr.  Follingsbee,  while  she  cast  a  glance  of  anxious  inquiry 
toward  the  seeming  stranger. 

"  How  is  Archibald  ?"  asked  the  lawyer,  briskly. 

"Sinking;  failing  every  moment,"  replied  Leslie,  sadly. 

"And  there  is  no  news  of  the  little  one?" 

"Not  a  word." 

There  was  a  sob  in  her  throat,  and  Mr.  Follingsbee,  who 
hated  a  scene,  turned  abruptly  toward  his  companion,  saying: 

"  Ours  is  a  business  call,  Leslie,  and  as  the  business  is  Mr. 
Stanhope's  not  mine,  I  will  retire  to  the  library  while  it  is  be- 
ing transacted." 

And  without  regarding  her  stare  of  surprise,  he  walked 
coolly  from  the  room,  leaving  Leslie  and  the  disguised  de- 
tective face  to  face. 

"  Is  it  possible!"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  silence ;  "is  this 
Mr.  Stanhope !" 

The  middle-aged  gentleman  smiled  and  came  toward  her. 

"  It  is  I,  Mrs.  "Warburton.  An  interview  with  you  seemed 
to  me  quite  necessary,  and  I  considered  this  the  safest  disguise, 
and  Mr.  Follingsbee's  company  the  surest  protection." 


168  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

She  bowed  her  head  and  looked  inquiringly  into  his 
face. 

"Mrs.  Warburton,  are  you  still  desirous  to  discover  the 
identity  of  the  person  who  has  been  a  spy  upon  you?''  he 
asked  gravely. 

"I  know — "  she  checked  herself  and  turned  a  shade  paler. 
"  I  mean  I — "  again  she  paused.  What  should  she  say  to 
this  man  whose  eyes  seemed  looking  into  her  very  soul? 
What  did  he  know? 

"  Let  me  speak  for  you,  madam/'  he  said,  coming  close  to 
her  side,  his  look  and  manner  full  of  respect,  his  voice  low 
and  gentle.  "  You  do  not  need  my  information  ;  you  have, 
yourself,  discovered  the  man." 

Then,  seeing  the  look  of  distress  and  indecision  upon  her 
face,  he  continued: 

"On  the  night  of  our  first  interview,  I  pledged  my  word  to 
respect  any  secret  of  yours  which  I  might  discover.  At  the 
same  time  I  warned  you  that  such  discovery  was  more  than 
possible.  If,  in  saying  what  it  becomes  my  duty  to  say,  I 
touch  upon  a  subject  offensive  to  you,  or  upon  which  you  are 
sensitive,  pardon  me.  Under  other  circumstances  I  might 
have  said :  Mrs.  Warburton,  it  is  your  brother-in-law  who  has 
constituted  himself  your  shadow.  But  the  events  that  fol- 
lowed that  masquerade  have  made  what  would  have  been  a 
simple  discovery,  a  most  complicated  affair.  Can  we  be  sure 
of  no  interruption  while  you  listen?" 

She  sank  into  a  chair,  with  a  weary  sigh. 

"There  will  be  no  interruption.  Miss  French  and  my 
brother-in-law  are  watching  in  the  sick-room;  the  servants 
are  nil  at  their  posts.  Be  seated,  Mr.  Stanhope." 

He  drew  a  chair  near  that  which  she  occupied,  and  plunged 


A  BUSINESS  CALL.  1 69 

at  once  into  his  unpleasant  narrative,  talking  fast,  and  in  low, 
guarded  tones. 

Beginning  with  a  description  of  the  Raid  as  it  was  planned, 
he  told  how  he  had  been  detained  at  the  masquerade — how  he 
had  discovered  the  presence  of  Vernet,  and  suspected  his 
agency  in  the  matter — how,  without  any  thought  other  than 
to  be  present  at  the  Raid,  to  note  Vernet's  generalship,  and 
satisfy  himself,  if  possible,  as' to  the  exact  meaning  of  his  un- 
friendly conduct,  he,  Stanhope,  had  assumed  the  disguise  of 
"Silly  Charlie",  had  encountered  Vernet  and  been  seized 
upon  by  that  gentleman  as  a  suitable  guide, — and  how,  while 
convoying  his  false  friend  through  the  dark  alleys,  they  were 
startled  by  a  cry  for  help. 

As  she  listened,  Leslie's  face  took  on  a  look  of  terror,  and 
she  buried  it  in  her  hands. 

"I  need  not  dwell  upon  what  followed,"  concluded  Stan- 
hope. "Not  knowing  \vhat  was  occurring,  I  managed  to  enter 
first  at  the  door.  I  heard  Alan  "VVarburton  bid  you  fly  for 
your  husband's  sake.  I  saw  your  face  as  he  forced  you  through 
the  door,  and  then  I  contrived  to  throw  Vernet  off  his  feet 
before  he,  too,  should  catch  a  glimpse  of  you." 

Leslie  shuddered,  and  as  he  paused,  she  asked,  from  behind 
her  hands : 

"  And  then — oh,  tell  me  what  happened  after  that !" 

"Your  brother-in-law  closed  and  barred  the  door,  and 
turned  upon  us  like  a  lion  at  bay,  risking  his  own  safety  to 
insure  your  retreat.  What!  has  he  not  told  you?" 

"He  has  told  me  nothing." 

"  There  is  little  more  to  tell.  I  knew  him  for  your  brother- 
in-law,  because,  here  at  the  masquerade,  I  was  a  witness  to  a 
little  scene  in  which  he  threw  off  his  mask  and  domino.  It 


170  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

was  when  he  met  and  frightened  the  little  girl,  and  then  re- 
proved the  servant." 

"  I  remember." 

"  I  recognized  him  at  once,  and  fearing  lest,  by  arresting 
him,  we  might  do  harm  to  you,  or  bring  to  light  the  secret  I 
had  promised  to  help  you  keep,  I  connived  at  his  escape." 

She  lifted  her  head  suddenly. 

"Arrest!"  she  exclaimed;  "why  should  you  arrest  him?" 

Stanhope  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  face;  then  sinking  his  voice 
still  lower,  he  said  : 

"Something  had  occurred  before  we  came  upon  the  scene; 
what  that  something  was,  you  probably  know.  What  we 
found  in  that  room,  after  your  flitting,  was  Alan  Warburton, 
standing  against  the  door  with  a  table  before  him  as  a  breast- 
work, in  his  hand  a  blood-stained  bar  of  iron,  and  almost  at 
his  feet,  a  dead  body." 

"What!" 

"  It  was  the  body  of  a  dead  rag-picker.  Before  you  left 
that  room,  a  fatal  blow  was  struck." 

"Yes — I — I  don't  know — I  can't  tell — it  was  all  con- 
fused." 

She  sank  back  in  her  chair,  her  face  fairly  livid,  her  eyes 
looking  unutterable  horror. 

"Some  one  had  committed  a  murder,"  went  on  Stanhope, 
keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her  pallid  face;  "and  the  in- 
strument that  dealt  the  blow  was  in  your  brother-in-law's 
hand.  To  arrest  him  would  have  been  to  compromise  you, 
and  I  had  promised  you  safety  and  protection." 

She  bent  forward,  looking  eagerly  into  his  face. 

"And  you  rescued  him?"  she  said,  eagerly. 

"  You  could  scarcely  call  it  that.     He  resisted  grandly,  and 


A  BUSINESS  CALL.  171 

was  brave  enough  to  effect  his  own  rescue.  I  guided  him 
away  from  that  unsafe  locality,  and  warned  him  of  the  danger 
which  menaced  him." 

"  And  is  that  danger  now  past  ?" 

"  Is  it  past!"  He  took  from  his  pocket  a  folded  placard, 
opened  it,  and  put  it  into  her  hands. 

It  was  the  handbill  containing  the  description  of  the  escaped 
Sailor,  and  offering  a  reward  for  his  capture. 
•  With  a  cry  of  remorse  and  terror,  Leslie  Warburton  flung 
it  from  her,  and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  My  God  !"  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands  wildly,  "  my 
cowardice,  my  folly,  has  brought  this  upon  him,  upon  us  all!" 

Then  turning  toward  the  detective,  a  sudden  resolve  re- 
placing the  terror  in  her  eye,  a  resolute  ring  in  her  voice,  she 
said: 

"  Listen ;  you  have  proved  yourself  worthy  of  all  con- 
fidence ;  you  shall  hear  all  I  have  to  tell ;  you  shall  judge 
between  my  enemies  and  me." 

"  But,  madam—" 

"Wait;  I  want  your  advice,  too,  your  aid,  perhaps.  Mr. 
Follingsbee  also  shall  hear  me." 

She  started  toward  the  library,  but  the  detective  put  out  a 
detaining  hand. 

"Stop!"  he  said,  firmly.  "If  what  you  are  about  to  say 
includes  anything  concerning  Alan  Warburton,  or  the  story 
of  that  night,  we  must  have  no  confidants  while  his  liberty 
and  life  are  menaced.  His  identity  with  that  missing  Sailor 
must  never  be  known,  even  by  Mr.  Follingsbee." 

She  breathed  a  shuddering  sigh,  and  returned  to  her  seat. 

"You  are  right,"  she  said  hurriedly;  "and  until  you  shall 

* 

advise  me  otherwise,  I  will  tell  my  story  to  none  but  you." 


172  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

LESLIE'S  STORY. 

"  I  shall  not  weary  you  with  a  long  story,"  began  Leslie 
Warburton;  "this  is  not  the  time  for  it,  and  I  am  not  in  the 
mood.  My  husband  lies  above  us,  hopelessly  ill.  My  little 
step-daughter  is  lost,  and  in  Heaven  only  knows  what  danger. 
My  brother-in-law  is  a  hunted  man,  accused  of  the  most 
atrocious  of  crimes.  And  I  feel  that  I  am  the  unhappy  cause 
of  all  these  calamities.  If  I  have  erred,  I  am  doubly  pun- 
ished. Let  me  give  you  the  bare  facts,  Mr.  Stanhope;  such 
details  as  you  may  wish  can  be  supplied  hereafter. 

"I  am,  as  you  have  been  told,  the  adopted  child  of  Thomas 
Uliman,  of  the  late  firm  of  Uliman  &  French.  Until  his 
death,  I  had  supposed  myself  to  be  his  own  child.  During 
the  last  year  of  my  adopted  father's  life,  it  was  his  dearest 
wish  that  I  should  marry  his  friend,  Archibald  Warburton, 
and  we  became  affianced.  After  the  death  of  my  adopted 
father,  Mr.  Warburton  urged  a  speedy  marriage,  and  we  fixed 
a  day  for  the  ceremony. 

"Less  than  a  Week  later,  it  became  necessary  to  overlook 
my  father's  papers,  in  the  search  for  some  missing  document. 
After  looking  through  his  secretary,  and  examining  a  great 
many  papers  without  finding  the  one  for  which  I  searched,  I 
remembered  that  my  mother's  desk  contained  many  papers. 
As  the  missing  document  referred  to  some  property  held  by 
them  jointly,  I  made  a  search  there.  She  had  been  dead  for 


LESLIE'S  STORY.  173 

more  than  a  year,  &nd  all  her  keys  were  in  my  possession,  but 
until  that  day  I  had  aever  had  the  courage  to  approach  her 
desk. 

"  Searching  among  her  papers,  I  found  one  which  had  never 
been  intended  for  my  eyes.  It  was  folded  tightly,  and  crowded 
into  a  tiny  space  behind  a  little  drawer.  My  mother's  death 
was  quite  sudden ;  had  she  died  of  a  lingering  sickness,  the 
paper  would  doubtless  have  been  destroyed,  for  it  furnished 
proof  that  I  was  not  the  child  of  Thomas  Uliman  and  his 
wife,  Mathilde,  but  an  adopted  daughter,  while  I  was  repre- 
sented in  the  will  as  their  only  child.  The  paper  I  found  was 
in  my  father's  writing,  and  by  it,  Franz  Francoise  and  his 
wife,  Martha — " 

"  What  I"  The  exclamation  fell  involuntarily  from  Stan- 
hope's lips.  Then  checking  himself,  he  said  quietly :  "  I  beg 
your  pardon;  proceed." 

"  Franz  Francoise  and  his  wife,  Martha,  by  this  paper  re- 
signed all  claim  to  the  child,  Lerchen,  for  a  pecuniary  con- 
sideration. The  child  was  to  be  rechristened  Leslie  Uliman, 
and  legally  adopted  by  the  Ulimans,  the  two  Francoises 
agreeing  never  to  approach  or  claim  her. 

"Imagine  my  consternation  and  grief!  With  this  paper  in 
my  hand,  I  went  straight  to  Mr.  Follingsbee.  He  had  known 
the  truth  from  the  first,  but  assured  me  that  the  Ulimans 
had  never  intended  that  I  should  learn  it.  I  had  been  legally 
adopted,  and  the  little  fortune  they  had  left  me  was  lawfully 
mine. 

"Then  I  told  the  story  to  my  intended  husband,  and, 
knowing  his  pride,  offered  him  a  release.  He  only  laughed 
at  my  Quixotism,  and  hastened  the  marriage  preparations, 
bidding  me  never,  under  any  circumstances,  allude  to  the  sub- 


174  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

ject  again.     Soon  after  that,  I  was  approached  by  the  Fran- 
coises— you  have  seen  them?"  lifting  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  need  not  tell  you  the  miseries  of  my  various  inter- 
views with  them.  They  had  learned  that  I  was  alone  in  the 
world,  and  they  came  to  claim  me;  I  was  their  child.  Hold- 
ing, as  I  did,  the  proofs  of  adoption,  many  women  would  have 
accepted  their  claim;  I  could  not.  My  soul  arose  in  revolt; 
every  throb  of  my  heart  beat  against  them.  If  nature's  voice 
ever  speaks,  it  spoke  in  me  against  their  claim.  Not  against 
their  age,  their  poverty,  or  their  ignorance;  but  against  the 
greed,  the  selfishness,  the  vileness  that  was  too  much  a  part 
of  them  to  remain  hidden.  Sooner  than  acknowledge  their 
claim,  I  would  have  died  by  my  own  hand.  They  wanted 
money,  and  with  that  I  purchased  a  respite.  Then  my  great 
temptation  came. 

"  Archibald  Warburton  had  bidden  me  never  to  speak  again 
on  the  subject  of  my  parentage — why  not  take  him  at  his 
word?  If  I  broke  off  my  marriage  with  him,  I  must  give  a 
reason ;  and  the  true  reason  I  would  never  give.  Not  even 
to  Mr.  Follingsbee  would  I  tell  the  truth.  I  kept  my  secret; 
and  after  much  hesitation,  the  Francoises  accepted  the  larger 
share  of  my  little  fortune,  and  swore  never  to  approach  me 
again, — to  leave  the  city  forever.  I  believed  myself  safe  then, 
and  married  Mr.  Warburton. 

"The  rest  you  can  guess.  Finding  that  I  had  married  a 
wealthy  man,  disregarding  their  oaths,  the  Francoises  came 
back,  and  renewed  their  persecutions.  And  I  was  more  than 
ever  in  their  power.  They  forced  me  to  visit  them  when 
they  would.  Their  demands  for  money  increased.  I  grew 
desperate  at  last,  and  on  the  night  of  the  masquerade,  I  went 


LESLIE'S  STORY.  175 

in  obedience  to  an  imperative  summons,  resolved  that  it  should 
be  the  last  time." 

She  paused  here  and  looked,  for  the  first  time  since  the  be- 
ginning of  her  recital,  straight  into  the  face  of  the  detective, 
who,  sitting  with  his  body  bent  forward  and  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  her,  seemed  yet  to  be  listening  after  her  words  had 
ceased,  so  intent  was  his  gaze,  so  absorbed  his  manner. 

Thus  a  moment  of  silence  passed.  Then  Stanhope,  with- 
drawing his  eyes,  and  leaning  back  in  his  seat,  asked  suddenly  : 

"Is  that  all?" 

"It  is  not  all,  Mr.  Stanhope.  On  the  night  of  the  mas- 
querade, while  I  was  absent  from  the  house  no  doubt,  my 
little  step-daughter  disappeared." 

"I  know." 

"You  have  heard  it,  of  course.  I  believe  that  I  know 
why,  and  by  whom,  she  was  abducted." 

"Ah!" 

"  I  suspect  the  Francoises." 

"Why?" 

"  I  love  the  child,  and  they  know  it.  She  will  be  another 
weapon  in  their  hands.  Besides,  if  I  cannot,  or  will  not  re- 
claim her,  there  is  the  reward." 

Richard  Stanhope  leaned  forward,  and  slightly  lifted  his 
right  hand. 

"  Is  there  any  one  else  who  w ould  be  benefited  by  the  death 
or  disappearance  of  the  child  ?"  he  asked. 

Leslie  started,  and  the  hot  blood  rushed  to  her  face. 

"I — I  don't  understand,"  she  faltered. 

"  Do  you  know  the  purport  of  your  husband's  will." 

"Yes." 

"How  does  he  dispose  of  his  large  property?" 


176  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"One  third  to  me;  the  rest  to  little  Daisy." 

"And  his  brother?" 

"Alan  possesses  an  independent  fortune." 

"  Are  there  no  contingencies  ?" 

"In  case  of  my  death,  all  comes  to  Daisy,  Alan  becoming 
her  guardian.  In  case  of  Daisy's  death,  Alan  and  I  share 
equally." 

"  Then  by  the  loss  of  this  child,  both  you  and  the  young  man 
become  richer." 

"Ah!"  she  gasped,  "I  had  never  thought  of  that!" 

"Mrs.  Warburton,  beginning  at  the  moment  when  you  left 
this  house  to  visit  the  Francoises,  will  you  tell  me  all  that 
transpired,  up  to  the  time  of  your  escape  from  their  house?" 

With  cheeks  flushing  and  paling,  and  voice  tremulous  with 
the  excitement  of  some  new,  strange  thought,  she  described  to 
him  the  scene  in  the  Francoises'  house. 

"So,"  thought  Stanhope,  when  all  was  told,  "Mr.  Alan 
Warburton's  presence  at  that  special  moment  was  strangely 
opportune.  Why  was  he  there?  What  does  he  know  of  the 
Francoises?  The  plot  thickens,  and  I  would  not  be  in  Alan 
Warburton's  shoes  for  all  the  Warburtou  wealth." 

But,  aloud,  he  only  said : 

"  Thanks,  Mrs.  Warburton.  If  you  are  correct  in  your 
suspicions,  and  the  Francoises  have  stolen  the  child,  they  will 
approach  you  sooner  or  later.  Should  they  do  so,  make  no 
terms  with  them,  but  communicate  with  me  at  once." 

"By  letter?" 

"No;  through  the  morning  papers.     Use  this  form." 

Taking  from  his  pocket  a  note-book,  he  wrote  upon  a  leaf 
a  few  words,  tore  it  from  the  book,  and  put  it  into  her  hand. 

"That  is  safer  than  a  letter,"  he  said,  rising.     "One  word 


LESLIE'S  STORY.  177 

more,  madam.  Tell  Alan  Warburton  to  be  doubly  guarded 
against  Van  Vernet.  His  danger  increases  at  every  step. 
Now  we  will  call  Mr.  Follingsbee." 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Stanhope.  Alan  has  employed  de- 
tectives to  search  for  Daisy,  but  none  of  them  know  what 
you  know.  Will  you  find  her  for  me?"  She  held  out  her 
hands  appeahngly. 

The  detective  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment,  then, 
striding  forward,  he  took  the  outstretched  hands  in  both  his 
own,  and  gazing  down  into' her  face  said,  gently: 

"  I  will  serve  you  to  the  extent  of  my  power,  dear  lady. 
I  will  find  the  little  one,  if  I  can.". 

Mr.  Follingsbee  had  passed  his  hour  of  waiting  in  the  most 
comfortable  manner  possible,  fast  asleep  in  a  big  lounging- 
chair.  Being  aroused,  he  departed  with  Stanhope,  manifest- 
ing no  curiosity  concerning  the  outcome  of  the  detective's 
visit. 

While  their  footsteps  yet  lingered  on  the  outer  threshold, 
Winnie  French  came  flying  down  the  stairway. 

"Come  quick!"  she  cried  to  Leslie.  "Archibald  is  worse; 
he  is  dying!" 

"  I  will  serve  you  to  the  extent  of  my  power,"  Richard 
Stanhope  had  said,  holding  Leslie  Warburton's  hands  in  his, 
and  looking  straight  into  her  appealing  eyes.  "I  will  find 
the  little  one,  if  I  can." 

Nevertheless  he  went  straight  to  the  Agency,  and,  standing 
before  his  Chief,  said : 

"  I  am  ready  to  begin  work  for  Mr.  Parks,  sir.  I  shall 
quit  the  Agency  to-day.  Give  Vernet  my  compliments,  and 
tell  him  I  wish  him  success.  It  may  be  a,  matter  of  days, 


178  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

weeks,  or  months,  but  you  will  not  see  me  here  again  until  I 
can  tell  you  who  kitted  Arthur  Pearson" 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

VERNET  ON  THE  TRAIL. 

The  discovery  made  by  Van  Vernet,  on  the  day  of  his  visit 
to  the  Warburton  mansion,  aroused  him  to  wonderful  ac- 
tivity, and  made  him  more  than  ever  eager  to  ferret  out  the 
hiding-place  of  Papa  Francoise,  who,  he  felt  assured,  could 
throw  much  light  upon  the  mystery  surrounding  the  midnight 
murder. 

He  set  a  constant  watch  upon  the  deserted  Francoise  house, 
and  kept  the  dwelling  of  the  -Warburtons  under  surveillance, 
while  he,  in  person,  gravitated  between  these  two  points  of  in- 
terest, during  the  time  when  he  was  not  employed  in  collect- 
ing items  of  information  concerning  the  Warburton  family. 
Little  by  little  he  gathered  his  bits  of  family  history,  and  was 
now  familiar  with  many  facts  concerning  the  invalid  master 
of  the  house  and  his  second  marriage,  and  the  travelled  and 
aristocratic  brother,  who,  so  rumor  said,  was  proud  as  a  crown- 
prince,  and  blameless  as  Sir  Galahad. 

"These  immaculate  fellows  are  not  to  my  taste,"  muttered 
Van  Vernet,  on  the  morning  following  the  day  when  Stan- 
hope held  his  last  interview  with  Leslie,  as  he  took  his  station 
at  a  convenient  point  of  observation,  prepared  to  pass  the  fore- 
noon in  watching  the  Warburton  mansion. 

His  first  glance  toward  the  massive  street-door  caused  him 


VERNET  ON  THE  TRAIL.  179 

• 

to  start  and  mutter  an  imprecation.  The  bell  was  muffled, 
and  the  door-plate  hidden  beneath  heavy  folds  of  crape. 

Archibald  Warburton  was  dead.  The  hand  that  stole  his 
little  one  had  struck  his  death-blow,  as  surely  as  if  by  a  dag- 
ger thrust.  His  feeble  frame,  unable  to  endure  those  long 
days  of  suspense,  had  given  his  soul  back  to  its  origin,  his 
body  back  to  nature. 

Within  was  a  household  doubly  stricken ;  without,  a  two- 
fold danger  menaced. 

"So,"  muttered  Van  Vernet,  as  he  gazed  upon  this  in- 
signia of  death  ;  "  so  my  patron  is  dead  ;  that  stately,  haughty 
aristocrat  has  lost  all  interest  in  his  wife's  secrets.  Well,  so 
have  I — but  I  have  transferred  my  interest  to  his  brother, 
Alan  Warburton.  Death  caused  by  shock  following  loss  of 
his  little  daughter,  no  doubt..  That  tall,  straight  seigneur 
looked  like  a  man  able  to  outlive  a  shock,  too." 

He  was  not  at  all  ruffled  by  the  sudden  taking-off  of  the 
man  he  supposed  to  be  his  patron.  He  had  not  made  a  single 
step  toward  the  clearing-up  of  the  mystery  surrounding  the 
goings  and  comings  of  Mrs.  Archibald  Warburton.  His  dis- 
covery of  Stanhope  at  the  masked  ball,  and  his  machinations 
consequent  upon  that  discovery,  together  with  the  fiasco  of  the 
Raid  and  all  its  after-results,  had  made  it  impossible  that  he 
could  interest  himself  in  what  he  considered  "merely  a  bit  of 
domestic  intrigue." 

He  was  not  sorry  that  Archibald  Warburton  was  dead,  and 
he  resolved  to  profit  by  that  death. 

Since  the  discovery  of  Alan  Warburton's  picture,  Van 
Vernet's  mind  had  been  drifting  toward  dangerous  conclu- 
sions. 

Suppose  this   wealthy  aristocrat  and   the  Sailor   assassin 


180  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

should  prove  the  same,  what  would  follow  ?  Might  he  not 
naturally  conclude  that  a  secret  existed  between  Alan  War- 
burton  and  the  Francoises,  and,  if  so,  what  was  the  nature 
of  that  secret?  Why  was  Alan  Warburton,  if  it  were  he, 
absent  from  his  house  on  a  night  of  festivity,  a  night  when 
he  should  have  been  making  merry  \vith  his  brother's  guests? 

If  he  were  in  league  with  those  outlaws  of  the  slums,  it  was 
not  for  plunder;  surely  the  Warburtons  were  rich  enough. 
What,  then,  was  the  secret  which  that  stately  mansion  concealed  ? 

"  A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush,"  quoted 
Vernet,  grimly.  "That  Sailor  assassin 'first — the  Warburton 
skeleton  first.  They  are  almost  under  my  hand,  and  once  I 
grasp  them,  my  clutch  is  upon  the  Warburton  millions,  too." 

The  morning  was  yet  early,  there  was  quiet  in  the  street 
and  Van  Vernet,  wearing  for  convenience  sake  the  uniform 
of  a  policeman,  paced  slowly  down  toward  the  house  of  mourn- 
ing. As  he  neared  the  street-corner,  two  women,  beggars 
evidently,  came  hurrying  around  the  corner  straight  toward 
him. 

At  sight  of  his  uniform  the  larger  and  elder  of  the  two,  a 
stout  woman  with  a  vicious  face,  a  sharp  eye,  and  head  closely 
muffled  in  a  ragged  shawl,  started  slightly.  Then  with  a 
furtive  glance  and  a  fawning  obeisance,  she  hurried  her  com- 
panion past  him,  and  down  the  street. 

This  companion,  a  younger  woman,  her  face  covered  with 
bruises  and  red  with  dissipation,  walked  with  a  painful  limp, 
and  the  hesitating  air  of  the  blind,  her  eyes  tightly  shut  and 
the  lids  quivering. 

"  Playing  blind,"  muttered  Vernet,  as  they  hastened  past 
him.  "  If  I  were  the  regular  officer  here,  I'd  have  them  out 
of  this ;  as  it  is— " 


VERNET  ON  THE  TRAIL.  181 

He  gave  a  shrug  of  indifference  and  glanced  back  over  his 
shoulder. 

The  two  women  had  halted  before  the  Warburton  mansion, 
and  the  elder  one  was  looking  up  at  the  crape-adorned  door. 

Then  she  glanced  backward  toward  the  officer,  who  seemed 
busy  contemplating  the  antics  of  a  pair  of  restive  horses  that 
were  coming  down  the  street.  Seeing  him  thus  employed, 
she  darted  down  the  basement-stairs,  dragging  her  stumbling 
companion  after  her. 

Suddenly  losing  his  interest  in  the  prancing  horses,  Van 
Vernet  turned  and  hastily  approached  the  mansion,  screened 
from  the  view  of  the  two  women  by  the  massive  stone  steps. 

Even  a  beggar,  of  the  ordinary  type,  respects  the  house  of 
mourning.  And  as  he  drew  near  them,  Yernet  mentally  as- 
sured himself  that  these  were  no  ordinary  mendicants. 

They  were  standing  close  to  the  basement-entrance.  And 
as  he  stealthily  approached,  he  saw  that  the  elder  woman  put 
into  the  hand  of  the  servant,  who  had  opened  the  door,  a  folded 
paper  which  she  took  reluctantly,  glanced  down  at,  and  with 
a  sulfen  nod  put  into  the  pocket  of  her  apron.  Then,  with- 
out a  word  to  the  two  beggars,  she  closed  and  locked  the  door, 
while  they,  seeming  not  in  the  least  disconcerted,  turned  and 
moved  leisurely  up  the  basement-stairs. 

They  would  have  passed  Vernet  hurriedly,  but  he  put  out 
his  hand  and  said: 

"Look  here,  my  good  souls,  don't  you  know  that  this  is  no 
place  for  beggars  ?  You  can't  be  very  old  in  the  business  or 
you'd  never  trouble  a  house  where  you  see  that  on  the  door." 
And  pointing  to  the  badge  of  mourning,  he  concluded  his 
oration :  "  Be  off,  now,  and  thank  fortune  that  I'm  a  good- 
natured  fellow." 


182  DANGEROUS  GROtTND. 

The  woman  muttered  something  after  the  usual  mendicant 
fashion,  and  hastened  away  down  the  street. 

At  the  same  moment  the  prancing  horses,  held  to  a  walk 
by  the  firm  hand  of  their  stout  driver,  came  opposite  the 
mansion,  and  a  face  muffled  in  folds  of  crape  looked  out  from 
the  carriage. 

But  Van  Vernet  had  now  no  eyes  for  the  horses,  the  carriage, 
or  its  occupant. 

Noting,  with  a  hasty  glance,  the  direction  taken  by  the  two 
women,  he  sprang  down  the  basement-steps  and  rang  the  bell. 

The  servant  who  had  opened  to  the  women,  again  ap- 
peared at  the  door. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  asked,  crossly;  for  being  an 
i.onest  servant  she  had  no  fear  of  the  blue  coat  and  brass  but- 
tons of  the  law. 

The  bogus  policeman  touched  his  hat  and  greeted  her  with 
an  affable  smile. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said ;  "  I  thought  you  might  be 
annoyed  by  those  beggars.  I  can  remove  them  if  you  enter 
a  complaint.  I  saw  that  they  gave  you  some  kind  of  a  paper ; 
a  begging  letter,  probably.  Just  give  it  to  me,  and  I  will  see 
that  they  don't  intrude  again  upon  people  who  are  in  trouble 
enough." 

He  extended  his  hand  for  the  letter;  but  the  servant  drew 
back,  and  answered  hastily: 

"  Don't  bother  yourself.  I've  had  my  orders,  and  I  guess 
when  I  don't  want  beggars  around,  I  know  how  to  send  them 
to  the  right-about." 

And  without  waiting  to  note  the  effect  of  her  speech,  she 
shut  the  door  in  his  face,  leaving  him  to  retreat  as  the  two 
beggars  had  done. 


"  Be  off,  now,  and  thank  fortune  that  I  am  a  good-natured  fellow."- 
page  181. 

188 


184  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Hastening  up  the  steps  he  looked  after  the  women,  who 
were  already  nearly  two  blocks  away.  Then,  with  one  back- 
ward glance,  he  started  off  in  the  same  direction,  keeping  at 
a  safe  distance,  but  always  in  sight  of  them. 

"So,"  he  mused,  as  he  walked  along,  "the  Warburton  ser- 
vant has  had  her  orders.  That  was  precisely  the  information 
I  wanted.  These  women  were  not  beggars,  but  messengers, 
and  they  brought  no  message  of  the  ordinary  kind." 

Suddenly  he  uttered  a  sharp  ejaculation,  and  quickened  his 
pace. 

"That  old  woman — why,  she  answers  perfectly  the  descrip- 
tion given  of  Mother  Francoise!  And  if  it  is  Mother  Fran- 
coise,  she  has  undoubtedly  brought  a  message  to  Alau  War- 
burton.  If  it  is  that  old  woman,  I  will  soon  know  it,  for  I 
shall  not  take  my  two  eyes  off  her  until  I  have  tracked  her 
home." 


CHAPTEE  XXV. 

WHO  KILLED  JOSEF  SIEBEL. 

While  Van  Vernet  was  following  after  the  two  women, 
the  carriage  with  the  restless  horses  moved  slowly  past  the 
Warburton  dwelling. 

An  observer  might  have  noted  that  the  face  of  the  crape- 
draped  occupant  was  pressed  close,  against  the  oval  window, 
in  the  rear  of  the  vehicle,  watching  the  direction  taken  by 
Van  Vernet.  Then,  suddenly,  this  individual  leaned  forward 
and  said  to  the  driver : 

"  Around  the  corner,  Jim,  and  turn." 


WHO  KILLED  JOSEF  SIEBEL?  185 

The  order  was  promptly  obeyed. 

"Now  back,  Jim,"  said  this  fickle-minded  person.  Then 
as  the  carriage  again  rounded  the  corner :  "  You  see  that  fel- 
low in  policeman's  uniform,  Jim?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Follow  him." 

Slowly  the  carriage  moved  along,  picking  its  way  across 
crowded  thoroughfares,  for  many  blocks,  .the  occupant  keep- 
ing a  close  watch  upon  the  movements  of  Van  Vernet,  this 
time  through  the  window  in  front. 

Finally,  leaning  back  in  the  carriage  with  a  muttered, 
"That  settles  it;  he's  going  to  track  them  home,"  he  again 
addressed  the  driver: 

"  Turn  back,  Jim." 

"All  right,  sir," 

"Drive  to  Warburton  place,  side  entrance." 

Leslie  Warburton,  her  vigil  being  over,  was  alone  in  her 
room,  pacing  restlessly  up  and  down,  a  look  of  dire  forebod- 
ing on  her  face,  and  in  her  hand  a  crumpled  note. 

At  the  sound  of  an  opening  door  she  turned  to  confront  her 
maid,  who  proffered  her  a  card. 

Leslie  took  it  mechanically  and  then  started  as  she  read 

thereon : 

MADAM  STANHOPE, 

Modeste. 

And  written  in  the  corner  of  the  card,  the  underlined  word, 
Imperative. 

There  was  a  look  of  relief  upon  the  face  she  turned  to  the 
servant. 

"Where  is  the— lady?" 

"  In  the  little  drawing-room,  madam." 


1 86  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Holding  the  card  in  her  hand,  Leslie  hastened  to  the  little 
drawing-room. 

A  tall,  veiled  woman  advanced  to  meet  her;  it  was  the  oc- 
cupant of  the  carriage. 

Leslie  came  close  to  this  sombre-robed  figure  and  said,  al- 
most in  a  whisper :  "  Mr.  Stanhbpe  ?" 

"It  is  I,  Mrs.  Warburton.  Need  I  say  that  only  the  most 
urgent  necessity  could  have  brought  me  here  at  such  a  time?" 

"  It  is  the  right  time,  sir." 

She  held  up  before  him  the  crumpled  note. 

"It  is  from  them?"  he  asked. 

Leslie  nodded. 

"  It  contains  the  secret  of  their  present  whereabouts,  and 
bids  you  come  to  them?" 

"Yes." 

"You  will  not  go?" 

"How  can  I,  now  ?" — her  voice  almost  a  wail — "and  yet — " 

"You  are  safe  to  refuse,  Mrs.  Warburton.  You  need  not 
comply  with  any  instructions  they  may  give  you  henceforth. 
Let  me  have  that  note." 

"But—" 

"I  must  have  it,  in  order  to  save  you.  I  must  know  where 
to  find  these  people." 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  and  put  the  note  into  his 
hand. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "Has  Van  Vernet  visited  this 
house,  to  your  knowledge?" 

"He  has." 

"And  he  saw — " 

"  No  one.  I  obtained  my  information  from  a  servant.  He 
sent  up  his  card  to  Alan,  who  refused  to  meet  him." 


WHO  KILLED  JOSEF  SEEBEL?  187 

"  Ah !"  Stanhope  turned  toward  the  door,  putting  the  note 
in  his  pocket  as  he  did  so.  Suddenly  he  paused,  his  eyes  rest- 
ing upon  the  portrait  of  Alan  Warburton. 

"That  is  very  imprudent,"  he  said. 

"I— I  don't  understand." 

"That  picture.  It  must  be  removed."  Then  turning 
sharply  to  ward  her:  "Are  there  other  pictures  of  Mr.  Alan 
Warburton  in  this  house?" 

"No;  this  is  the  only  recent  portrait." 

He  sat  down  and  looked  at  the  picture  intently. 

"Van  Vernet  has  been  here,  you  tell  me.  Can  he  have 
seen  that  ?" 

Fully  alive  now  to  the  delicacy  and  danger  of  the  situation, 
Leslie  lifted  her  hand  and  turned  toward  the  door.  "  Wait," 
she  said,  and  went  swiftly  out. 

"So,"  muttered  Stanhope,  as  he  again  contemplated  the 
picture,  "a  square  foot  of  canvas  can  spoil  all  my  plans.  If 
Van  has  seen  this,  my  work  becomes  doubly  hard,  and  War- 
burton's  case  a  desperate  one." 

While  he  pondered,  Leslie  came  softly  back,  and  stood  be- 
fore him. 

"  It  is  as  bad  as  your  feared,"  she  said,  tremulously.  "  Van 
Vernet  was  received  in  this  very  room,  the  servant  tells  me. 
He  saw  the  picture,  examined  it  closely,  and  asked  the  name 
of  the  original." 

"  Then,"  said  Stanhope,  rising,  "  the  picture  need  not  be 
removed.  It  has  done  all  the  mischief  it  can.  To  remove  it 
now  would  only  make  a  suspicion  a  certainty.  Listen,  madam, 
and  as  soon  as  possible  report  what  I  tell  you  to  Alan  War- 
burton.  A  short  time  ago,  Mamma  Francoise  and  one  of  her 
tools  left  the  note  I  hold,  at  your  basement-door.  Van 


188  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Vernet,  who  was  watching  near  here,  saw  them  and  followed 
them." 

"Oh!" 

"  He  has  seen  that  picture.  Tell  your  brother-in-law  that 
Van  Vernet  has  seen  it  and,  doubtless,  has  traced  the  resem- 
blance between  it  and  the  fugitive  Sailor;  tell  him  that  Vernet 
is  now  on  the  track  of  the  Francoises,  who,  if  found,  will  be 
used  to  convict  him  of  murder." 

"But — Alan  is  not  guilty." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?" 

"I — I — "  She  faltered  and  was  silent. 

"Mrs.  Warburton,"  he  asked,  slowly,  "do  you  know  who 
struck  that  blow?" 

She  trembled  violently,  and  her  face  turned  ashen  white. 

"  I  can't  tell !  I  don't  know  !"  she  cried  wildly.  "  It  was 
a  moment  of  confusion,  but — it  was  not— oh,  no,  no,  it  was 
not  Alan !" 

Not  a  little  surprised  at  this  incoherent  outburst,  Stanhope 
looked  her  keenly  in  the  face,  a  new  thought  taking  possession 
of  his  mind. 

Could  it  be  that  she,  in  the  desperation  of  the  moment,  in 
her  struggle  for  safety,  had  stricken  that  cruel  blow?  Such 
things  had  been.  Women  as  frail,  in  the  strength  born  of 
desperation,  had  wielded  still  more  savage  weapons  with  fatal 
effect. 

The  question,  who  killed  Jose  Siebel?  was  becoming  a 
riddle. 

"Let  that  subject  drop,"  said  Stanhope,  withdrawing  his 
eyes  from  her  face.  "  Tell  your  brother-in-law  of  his  danger, 
but  do  not  make  use  of  my  name.  He  knows  nothing  about  me. 
For  yourself,  obey  no  summons  like  this  you  have  just  re- 


WHO  KILLED  JOSEF  SIEBEL?  189 

ceived.  You  need  not  make  use  of  my  newspaper-telegraph 
now.  What  I  saw  this  morning,  showed  me  the  necessity  for 
instant  action.  There  is  one  thing  more:  tell  Alan  Warbur- 
ton  that  now,  with  Vernet's  eye  upon  him,  there  will  be  no 
safety  in  flight.  Let  him  remain  here,  but  tell  him,  above 
all,  to  shun  interviews  with  strangers,  be  their  errand  what  it 
will.  Let  no  one  approach  him  whom  he  does  not  know  to 
be  a  friend.  After  your  husband's  funeral,  you  too  had  bet- 
ter observe  this  same  caution.  Admit  no  strangers  to  your 
presence." 

"  But  you—" 

"  I  shall  not  apply  for  admittance ;  I  am  going  away.  Be- 
fore you  see  me  again,  I  trust  your  troubles  will  have  ended." 

"And  little  Daisy?" 

v  We  shall  find  her,  I  hope.  Mrs.  Warburton,  time  presses; 
remember  my  instructions  and  my  warning.  Good-morning." 

He  moved  toward  the  door,  turned  again,  and  said  : 

"One  thing  more;  see  that  you  and  your  household  avoid 
any  movement  that  might  seem,  to  a  watcher,  suspicious. 
Vernet  keeps  this  house  under  surveillance,  night  and  day. 
He  is  a  foe  to  fear.  Once  more,  good-by." 

It  was  long  past  noon  when  Van  Vernet,  weary  but  trium- 
phant, reappeared  upon  the  fashionable  street  where  stood  the 
Warburton  mansion. 

He  had  been  successful  beyond  his  utmost  expectations. 
Not  only  had  he  succeeded  in  tracking  the  two  women  to  their 
hiding-place,  for  it  could  scarcely  be  called  their  home,  but  he 
had  also  satisfied  himself  that  the  elder  woman  was  indeed  and 
in  truth  Mamma  Francoise;  and  that  Papa  Francoise  was 
also  sheltered  by  the  tumble-down  roof  under  which  the  old 


190  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

woman   and    her   companion   had   passed    from   his   sight. 

Vernet  was  tired  with  his  long  promenade  at  the  heels  of 
the  two  sham  beggars,  and  he  resolved  to  give  the  mansion  a 
brief  reconnoitring  glance  and  then  to  turn  the  watch  over  to 
a  subordinate. 

Accordingly  he  sauntered  down  the  street,  noting  as  he 
walked  the  unchanged  aspect  of  the  shut-up  house.  He  was 
still  a  few  paces  away,  when  a  vehicle  came  swiftly  down  the 
street,  rolling  on  noiseless  wheels. 

It  was  an  undertaker's  van,  and  it  came  to  a  halt  before  the 
door  of  the  Warburton  mansion.  Two  men  were  seated  upon 
the  van,  and  as  one  of  them  dismounted  and  ascended  the 
stately  steps,  the  other,  getting  down  in  more  leisurely 
fashion,  opened  the  door  in  the  end  of  the  vehicle,  disclosing 
to  the  view  of  Vernet,  who  by  this  time  was  near  enough  to 
see,  a  magnificent  casket. 

In  another  moment,  the  man  who  had  gone  to  announce 
their  arrival  came  down  the  steps,  accompanied  by  a  servant, 
and  together  the  three  carefully  drew  the  casket  from  the  van. 

Vernet's  quick  eye  detected  the  fact  that  it  was  heavy,  and 
his  quicker  brain  caught  at  an  opportunity.  Stepping  to  the 
side  of  the  man  who  seemed  to  hold  the  heaviest  weight,  he 
proffered  his  assistance.  It  was  promptly  accepted,  and,  to- 
gether, the  four  lifted  the  splendid  casket,  and  carried  it  into 
the  wide  hall. 

What  is  it  that  causes  Van  Vernet's  eyes  to  gleam,  and  his 
lips  to  twitch  with  some  new,  strange  excitement,  as  they  put 
the  casket  down  ?  His  gaze  rests  upon  it  as  if  fascinated. 

Archibald  Warburton,  the  man  in  the  black  and  scarlet 
domino,  the  man  who  had  employed  him  to  watch  the  move- 
ments of  Leslie  Warburtou,  was  six-foot  tall.  And  thi* 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL.          191 

casket — it  was  made  for  a  much  shorter,  a  much  smaller  man ! 

If  this  were  intended  for  Archibald  Warburton,  who,  then, 
was  the  six-foot  masker  ? 

With  eyes  aglow,  and  firmly-compressed  lips,  Van  Vernet 
cast  a  last  glance  at  the  casket  and  the  name,  Archibald  War- 
burton,  on  the  plate.  Then  turning  away,  he  followed  the  two 
undertakers  from  the  house. 

At  the  foot  of  the  steps  he  paused,  and  looked  up  at  the 
closed  windows  with  the  face  of  a  man  who  saw  long-looked- 
for  daylight  through  a  cloud  of  mist. 

"Ah,  Alan  Warburton,"  he  muttered,  "  I  have  you  now!" 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL. 

In  every  city  where  splendor  abounds  and  wealth  rolls  in 
carriages,  can  be  found,  also,  squalor  and  wretchedness.  If 
the  rich  have  their  avenues,  and  the  good  and  virtuous  their 
sanctuaries,  so  have  the  poor  their  by-ways  and  alleys,  and 
the  vicious  their  haunts.  In  a  great  city  there  is  room  for 
all,  and  a  place  for  everything. 

Papa  and  Mamma  Fnmcoise  had  left  their  abiding-place  in 
the  slums  for  a  refuge  even  more  secure. 

Van  Vernet  had  followed  the  two  women  to  a  narrow 
street,  long  since  left  behind  by  the  march  of  progress;  a  street 
where  the  huts  and  tumble-down  frame  buildings  had  once 
been  reputable  dwellings  and  stores,  scattered  promiscu- 
ously along  on  either  side  of  a  thoroughfare  that  had  once  been 


192  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

clean,  and  inhabited  by  modest  industry.  But  that  was  many 
years  ago :  it  had  long  been  given  over  to  dirt  and  disorder 
without,  and  to  rags,  poverty,  rats  and  filth  within.  Here 
dwelf^many  foreigners,  and  the  sound  of  numerous  tongues 
speaking  in  many  languages,  might  always  be  heard. 

On  this  street,  in  the  upper  rooms  of  a  rickety  two-story 
house,  Papa  and  Mamma  Francoise  had  set  up  their  household 
gods  after  their  flight  from  the  scene  of  Josef  Siebel's  mur- 
der ;  the  lower  floor  being  inhabited  by  a  family  of  Italians, 
who  possessed  an  unlimited  number  of  children  and  a  limited 
knowledge  of  English. 

It  is  evening,  the  evening  of  the  day  that  has  witnessed 
Van  Vernet's  most  recent  discovery,  and  Papa  and  Mamma 
are  at  home. 

The  room  is  even  more  squalid  than  that  recently  occupied 
by  them,  for,  besides  a  three-legged  table,  two  rickety  chairs, 
a  horribly-dilapidated  stove  and  two  dirty,  ragged  pallets  at 
opposite  sides  of  the  room,  furniture  there  is  none. 

Perched  upon  one  of  the  two  rickety  chairs,  his  thin  legs 
extended  underneath  the  table  and  his  elbows  resting  upon  it, 
sits  Papa  Francoise,  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  a  broken 
glass  containing  a  small  quantity  of  the  worst  whiskey;  and 
near  him,  Mamma  squats  upon  the  floor  before  the  rusty  stove, 
in  which  a  brisk  fire  is  burning,  stirring  vigorously  at  a  strong- 
smelling  decoction  which  is  simmering  over  the  coals. 

"Come,  old  woman,"  growls  Papa,  with  a  self-assertion 
probably  borrowed  from  the  broken  glass  under  his  eye,  "get 
that  stuff  brewed  before  the  gal  comes  in.  And  then  try  and 
answer  my  question :  what's  to  be  done  with  her  ?" 

Mamma  Francoise  stirs  the  liquid  more  vigorously,  and 
takes  a  careful  sip  from  the  iron  spoon. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL.          193 

"Ah,"  she  murmurs,  "that's  the  stuff.  It's  a  pity  to 
spoil  it." 

She  rises  slowly,  and  drawing  a  bottle  from  her  pocket, 
pours  into  the  basin  afe\v  d.op.s  of  b.own  liquid,  stirs  it  again, 
and  then  removing  the  decoction  from  the  fire,  pours  it  into  a 
battered  cup,  which  she  sets  upon  the  floor  at  a  distance  from 
the  stove. 

If  one  may  judge  from  Mamma's  abstinence,  the  liquor  has 
been  spoiled,  for  she  does  not  taste  it  again. 

Having  thus  completed  her  task,  she  turns  toward  one  of 
the  pallets,  and  seating  herself  thereon  lifts  her  eyes  toward 
Papa. 

"What's  to  be  done  with  the  girl?"  she  repeats.  "That's 
the  question  I've  asked  you  often  enough,  and  I  never  got  an 
answer  yet." 

Papa  withdraws  his  gaze  from  her  face,  and  fixes  it  once 
more  upon  the  broken  tumbler. 

"  She  ain't  no  good  to  us,"  resumes  Mamma, "  and  we  can't 
have  her  tied  to  us  always." 

"Nor  we  can't  turn  her  adrift,"  says  Papa,  significantly. 

"No;  we  can't  turn  her  adrift,"  replies  Mamma.  "We 
can't  afford  to  keep  her,  and  we  can't  afford  to  let  her  go." 

"  Consequently — "  says  Papa. 

And  then  they  look  at  one  another  in  silence. 

"We  may  have  to  get  out  of  this  place  at  a  minute's  warn- 
ing," resumes  Mamma,  after  a  time,  "  and  how  can  we  expect 
to  dodge  the  cops  with  that  gal  tied  to  us?  You  and  I  can 
alter  our  looks,  but  we  can't  alter  hers." 

"  No,"  says  Papa,  shaking  his  head,  "we  can't  alter  hers—- 
not now." 

"  And  if  we  could,  we  can't  alter  her  actions." 
13  *9 


194  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"No;  we  can't  alter  her  actions/'  agrees  Papa,  with  a  cun- 
ning leer,  ''except  to  make  'em  worse." 

And  he  casts  a  suggestive  glance  toward  the  tin  cup  on  the 
floor. 

"It  won't  do,"  said  Mamma,  noting  the  direction  of  his 
glance;  "  it  won't  do  to  increase  the  drams.  If  she  got  worse, 
we  couldn't  manage  her  at  all.  It  won't  do  to  give  her  any 
more." 

"  And  won't  do  to  give  her  any  less.  Old  woman,  we've 
just  got  back  to  the  place  we  started  from." 

Mamma  Francoise  rests  her  chin  in  her  ample  palm  and 
ponders. 

"I  think  I  can  see  a  way,"  she  begins.  Then,  at  the  sound 
of  an  uncertain  footstep  on  the  rickety  stairs,  she  stops  to 
listen.  "That's  her,"  she  says,  a  frown  darkening  her  face. 
"She's  got  to  be  kept  off  the  street." 

She  goes  to  the  door,  opens  it  with  an  angry  movement,  and 
peers  out  into  the  dark  hall. 

"Nance,  you  torment!" 

But  the  head  that  appears  above  the  stair-railing  is  not 
the  head  of  a  female,  and  it  is  a  masculine  voice  that  says,  in 
an  undertone : 

"Sh-h!  Old  woman,  let  me  in,  and  don't  make  a  fuss." 

The  woman  starts  back  and  is  about  to  close  the  door,  when 
something  in  the  appearance  of  the  man  arrests  her  attention. 

As  he  halts  at  the  top  of  the  stairway,  the  light  from  the 
door  reveals  to  her  a  shock  of  close-curling,  carroty-red  hair. 

In  another  moment  he  stands  with  a  hand  on  either  door- 
post. 

"How  are  ye'  old  uns?"  he  says,  with  a  grin.  "Governor, 
how  are  ye?"  And  then,  with  a  leer,  and  a  lurch  which  be- 


"Sow  are  ye,  old  uns?    Governor,  how  are  ye?— page  194. 

195 


196  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

trays  the  fact  that  he  is  half  intoxicated,  he  adds,  in  a  voice 
indicative  of  stupid  astonishment :  "  Why,  I'm  blowed,  the 
blessed  old  fakers  don't  know  their  own  young  un !" 

"Franzy!"  Mamma  Francoise  starts  forward,  a  look  of 
mingled  doubt  and  anxiety  upon  her  face.  "  Franzy !  No,  it 
can't  be  Franzy !" 

"Why  can't  it  be?  Ain't  ten  years  in  limbo  enough?  Or 
ain't  I  growed  as  handsome  as  ye  expected  to  see  me?"  Then 
coming  into  the  room,  and  peering  closely  into  the  faces  of 
the  two:  "I'm  blessed  if  I  don't  resemble  the  rest  of  the 
family,  anyhow." 

The  two  Francoises  drew  close  together,  and  scrutinized  the 
new-comer  keenly,  doubtfully,  with  suspicion. 

Ten  years  ago,  their  son,  Franzy,  then  a  beardless  boy  of 
seventeen,  and  a  worthy  child  of  his  parents,  had  reluctantly 
turned  his  back  upon  the  outer  world  and  assumed  a  prison 
garb,  to  serve  out  a  twenty  years'  sentence  for  the  crime  of 
manslaughter. 

Ten  years  had  elapsed  and  this  man,  just  such  a  man  as 
their  boy  must  have  become,  stands  before  them  and  claims 
them  for  his  parents. 

There  is  little  trace  of  the  old  Franz,  save  the  carroty  hair, 
the  color  of  the  eyes,  the  devil-may-care  manner,  and  the 
reckless  speech.  And  after  a  prolonged  gaze,  Papa  says,  still 
hesitatingly : 

"  Franzy  !  is  it  really  Franzy  ?" 

The  new  claimant  to  parental  affection  flings  out  his  hand 
with  a  fierce  gesture,  and  a  horrible  oath  breaks  from  his 
lips. 

"  Is  it  really  Franzy?"  he  cries,  derisively.  "Who  else  do 
ye  think  would  be  likely  to  claim  yer  kinship?  Fve  put  in 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  PRODIGAL.          197 

ten  years  in  the  stripes,  an'  I'm  about  as  proud  of  ye  as  I  was 
of  my  ball  and  chain.  I've  taken  the  trouble  ter  hunt  ye  up, 
with  the  police  hot  on  my  trail ;  maybe  ye  don't  want  ter 
own  the  son  as  might  a-been  a  decent  man  but  for  yer 
teachin'.  Well,  I  ain't  partikeler ;  I'll  take  myself  out  of  yer 
quarters." 

He  turns  about  with  a  firm,  resentful  movement,  and 
Mamma  Francoise  springs  forward  with  a  look  of  conviction 
on  her  hard  face. 

"  Anybody'd  know  ye  after  that  blow  out,"  she  says  with  a 
grin.  "Ye're  the  same  old  sixpence,  Franzy;  let's  have  a 
look  at  ye." 

She  lays  a  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  he  turns  back  half  re- 
luctantly. 

"  Wot's  struck  ye?"  he  asks,  resentfully.  "  Maybe  it's  oc- 
curred to  ye  that  I  may  have  got  a  bit  o'  money  about  me. 
If  that's  yer  lay,  ye're  left.  An'  I  may  as  well  tell  ye  that  if 
ye  can't  help  a  fellow  to  a  little  of  the  necessary,  there's  no 
good  o'  my  stoppin'  here." 

And  shaking  her  hand  from  his  arm,  this  affectionate  Prod- 
igal strides  past  her,  and  peers  eagerly  into  the  broken  glass 
upon  the  table. 

"  Empty,  of  course,"  he  mutters ;  "  I  might  a-known  it." 

Then  his  eyes  fix  upon  the  tin  cup  containing  Mamma's 
choice  brew.  Striding  forward,  he  seizes  it,  smells  its  con- 
tents, and  with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction  raises  it  to  his  lips. 

In  an  instant  Mamma  Francoise  springs  forward,  and  seiz- 
ing the  cup  with  both  hands,  holds  it  away  from  his  mouth. 

"Stop," Franz!  you  mustn't  drink  that." 

A  string  of  oaths  rolls  from  his  lips,  and  he  wrests  the  cup 
from  her  hand,  spilling  half  its  contents  in  the  act. 


198  DAKGEROtJS  GROtTNB. 

"  Stop,  Franzy !"  calls  Papa,  excitedly;  "  that  stuff  won't 
be  good  for  you." 

And  hurrying  to  one  of  the  pallets  he  draws  from  under  it 
a  bottle,  which,  together  with  the  broken  tumbler,  he  presents 
to  the  angry  young  man. 

"Here,  Franzy,  drink  this." 

But  the  Prodigal  shakes  off  his  father's  persuasive  touch, 
and  again  seizes  upon  the  cup  of  warm  liquor. 

"  Frauzy  !"  cries  Papa,  in  a  tremor  of  fear,  "  drop  that ;  ifs 
doctored" 

The  Prodigal  moves  a  step  backward,  and  slowly  lowers 
the  cup. 

"  Oh !"  he  ejaculates,  musingly,  "  it's  doctored !  Wot  are 
ye  up  to,  old  uns  ?  If  it's  a  doctored  dose,  I  don't  want  it — 
not  yet.  Come,  sit  down  and  let's  talk  matters  over." 

Taking  the  bottle  from  the  old  man's  hand,  he  goes  back  to 
the  table,  seats  himself  on  the  chair  recently  occupied  by  the 
elder  Francoise,  motioning  that  worthy  to  occupy  the  only 
remaining  chair.  And  courtesy  being  an  unknown  quality 
among  the  Francoises,  the  three  are  soon  grouped  about  the 
table,  Mamma  accommodating  herself  as  best  she  can. 

"  Franzy,"  says  Mamma,  after  refreshing  herself  from  the 
bottle,  which  goes  from  hand  to  hand ;  "before  you  worry  any 
more  about  that  medicine,  an'  who  it's  for,  tell  us  how  came 
yer  out?" 

"How  came  I  out?  Easy  enough.  There  was  three 
of  us;  we  worked  for  it  five  months  ahead,  and  one  of  us 
had  a  pal  outside.  Pass  up  the  bottle,  old  top, -while  I 
explain." 

Having  refreshed  himself  from  the  bottle,  he  begins  his 
story,  interluding  it  with  innumerable  oaths,  and  allotting  to 


FEANZY  FEANCOISE'S  GALLANTBY. 

himself  a  full  share  of  the  daring  and  dangerous  feats  accom- 
panying the  escape. 

"  It's  plain  that  ye  ain't  read  the  papers,"  he  concludes. 
"  Ye'd  know  all  about  it,  if  ye  had." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

FEANZY  FRANCHISE'S  GALLANTEY. 

While  this  reunited  family,  warmed  to  cordiality  by  the 
contents  of  the  aforementioned  bottle,  exchanged  confidences, 
the  evening  wore  on. 

Franz  had  related  the  story  of  his  escape  and  his  subse- 
quent adventures,  and  finished  by  telling  them  how,  by  the 
merest  accident,  he  had  espied  Mamma  and  Nance  upon  their 
return  from  the  Warburton  mansion  ;  and  how?  at  the  risk  of 
being  detained  by  a  too-zealous  "cop,"  he  had  followed  them, 
and  so  discovered  their  present  abode. 

In  exchange  for  this  interesting  story,  Papa  had  briefly 
sketched  the  outline  of  the  career  run  by  himself  and  Mamma 
during  the  ten  years  of  their  son's  absence,  up  to  the  time  of 
their  retreat  from  the  scene  of  the  Siebel  tragedy. 

"We  were  doing  a  good  business,"  sighed  Papa,  dole- 
fully ,  "  a  very  good  business,  in  that  house.  But  one  night 
there  were  two  or  three  there  with — goods,  and  while  the  old 
woman  and  I  were  attending  to  business,  the  others  got  into 
a  fuss — ah.  We  had  no  hand  in  it,  the  old  woman  and  me, 
but  there  was  a  man  killed,  and  it  wasn't  safe  to  stay  there, 
Franzy." 


200  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Umph  !"  muttered  the  hopeful  son  ;  "  who  did  the  killin'?" 

Papa  glanced  uneasily  at  the  old  woman,  and  then  re- 
p]  ied : 

"We  don't  know,  Franzy.  The  fight  began  when  we  were 
out  of  the  room,  and — we  don't  know." 

"  That's  a  pity ;  wasn't  there  any  reward  ?" 

"Yes,  boy,"  said  Mamma,  eagerly;  "a  big  reward.  An' 
if  we  could  tell  who  did  the  thing,  we  would  be  rich." 

"Somebody  got  arrested,  of  course?" 

"  N — no,  Franzy ;  nobody's  been  arrested — not  yet." 

"  Oh,  they're  a-lookin'  fer  somebody  on  suspicion  ?  I  say, 
old  top,  if  nobody  knows  who  struck  the  blow,  seems  to  me 
ye're  runnin'  a  little  risk  yerself.  S'pose  they  should  run  yer 
to  earth,  eh?" 

"  We've  been  careful,  Franzy." 

"S'pose  ye  have — look  here,  old  un,  don't  ye  see  yer 
chance  ?" 

"How,  Franzy?" 

"  How !  If  I  was  you,  I'd  clear  my  own  skirts,  and  git 
that  reward." 

"How?  how?" 

"  Fd  know  who  did  the  killin'." 

And  he  leaned  forward,  took  the  bottle  from  Mamma's  re- 
luctant hand,  and  drained  it  to  the  last  drop,  while  Papa  and 
Mamma  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  some  new  thought  send- 
ing a  flush  of  excitement  to  the  face  of  each. 

"Ah,  Franzy/'  murmured  Mamma,  casting  upon  him  a 
look  of  pride,  such  as  a  tiger  might  bestow  upon  her  cub, 
"ye'll  be  a  blessin'  to  yer  old  mother  yet !" 

Then  she  turns  her  head  and  listens,  while  Franz,  casting 
a  wistful  look  at  the  now  empty  bottle,  rises  to  his  feet  the 


FRANZY  FRANCHISE'S  GALLANTRY.  201 

movement  betraying  the  fact  that  he  is  physically  intoxicated, 
although  his  head  as  yet  seems  so  clear. 

Again  footsteps  approach,  and  Mamma  hastens  to  the  door, 
listens  a  moment,  opens  it  cautiously,  and  peers  out. 

"It's  that  gal,"  she  mutters,  setting  the  door  wide  open. 
"Come  in,  you  Nance!  Where  have  you  been,  making  your- 
self a  nuisance  ?" 

Then  she  falls  back  a  pace,  staring  stupidly  at  the  strangely- 
assorted  couple  who  stand  in  the  doorway. 

A  girl,  a  woman,  young  or  old  you  can  hardly  tell  which;  with 
a  face  scarcely  human,  so  bleared  are  the  eyes,  so  sodden,  besot- 
ted and  maudlin  the  entire  countenance ;  clad  in  foul  rags  and 
smeared  with  dirt,  she  reels  as  she  advances,  and  clings  to  the 
supporting  arm  of  a  black-robed  Sister  of  Mercy,  who  towers 
above  her  tall  and  slender,  and  who  looks  upon  them  all  with 
sweet,  brave  eyes,  and  speaks  with  sorrowful  dignity: 

"  My  duty  called  me  into  your  street,  madam,  and  I  found 
this  poor  creature  surrounded  by  boisterous  children,  and 
striving  to  free  herself  from  them.  They  tell  me  that  this  is 
her  home ;  is  she  your  daughter  ?" 

A  look  of  anger  gleams  in  Mamma's  eyes,  but  she  suppresses 
her  wrath  and  answers: 

"  No ;  she's  not  our  daughter,  but  she's  a  fine  trouble  to  us, 
just  the  same.  Nance,  let  go  the  lady,  and  git  out  of  the 
way." 

With  a  whine  of  fear,  the  girl  drops  the  arm  of  the 
Sister,  and  turns  away.  But  her  new-found  friend  restrains 
her,  and  with  a  hand  resting  upon  her  arm,  again  addresses 
Mamma : 

"They  tell  me  that  this  girl's  mind  has  been  destroyed  by 
liquor,  and  that  still  you  permit  her  to  drink.  This  cannot 


202  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

be  overlooked.  She  is  not  your  child,  you  say ;  may  I  not 
take  her  to  our  hospital?" 

These  are  charitable  words,  but  they  bring  Papa  Francoise 
suddenly  to  his  feet,  and  cause  Mamma's  true  nature  to  assert 
itself. 

Springing  forward  with  a  cry  of  rage,  she  seizes  the  arm 
of  the  girl,  Nance,  drags  her  from  the  Sister's  side,  and  pushes 
her  toward  the  nearest  pallet  with  such  violence  that  the  reel- 
ing girl  falls  to  the  floor,  where  she  lies  trembling  with  fear 
and  whimpering  piteously. 

"This  comes  of  letting  you  wander  around,  eh?"  hisses 
Mamma,  with  a  fierce  glance  at  the  prostrate  girl.  Then  turn- 
ing to  the  Sister  of  Mercy,  she  cries :  "  That  gal  is  my  charge, 
and  I'm  able  to  take  care  of  her.  Your  hospital  prayers 
wouldn't  do  her  any  good." 

As  she  speaks,  Papa  moves  stealthily  forward  and  touches 
her  elbow. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  you  old  fool,"  he  whispers  sharply. 

Then  to  the  Sister  he  says,    with  fawning  obsequiousness  : 

"  You  see,  lady,  the  poor  girl  is  my  wife's  niece,  and  she 
was  born  with  a  drunkard's  appetite.  We  have  to  give  her 
drink,  but  we  couldn't  hear  of  sending  the  poor  child  to  a 
hospital ;  oh,  no !" 

Since  the  entrance  of  the  Sister  and  Nance,  Franz  has  ap- 
parently been  engaged  in  steadying  both  his  legs  and  his  intel- 
lect. He  now  comes  forward  with  a  lurch,  and  inquires  with 
tipsy  gravity : 

"  Wot 's  the  row?     Anythin'  as  I  kin  help  out?"* 

"Only  a  little  word  about  our  Nance,  my  boy,"  replies 
Mamma,  who  has  mastered,  outwardly,  her  fit  of  rage.  "  The 
charitable  lady  wants  our  Nance." 


FRANZY  FRANCHISE'S  GALLANTRY.  203 

"The  lady  is  very  kind,"  chimes  in  Papa;  "but  we  can't 
spare  Nance,  poor  girl." 

"Can't  we?"  queries  Franz,  aggressively,  turning  to  look 
at  the  prostrate  girl.  "Now,  why  can't  we  spare  her  ?  I  kin 
spare  her;  who's  she,  anyhow?  Here  you,  Nance,  git  up." 

"Now,  Franzy," — begins  Mamma. 

"S'h— h,  my  boy," — whispers  Papa,  appealingly. 

But  he  roughly  repulses  Mamma's  extended  hand. 

"  Let  up,  old  woman,"  he  says,  coarsely ;  and  then,  pushing 
her  aside,  he  addresses  the  Sister: 

"I  say,  what — er — ye  want — er — her  for,  any'ow?" 

The  Sister  turns  away,  and  addresses  herself  once  more  to 
Mamma. 

"  I  cannot  understand  why  that  girl  may  not  have  proper 
care,"  she  says,  sternly.  "If  her  intellect  has  been  shattered 
by  the  use  of  liquor,  this  is  not  the  place  for  her,"  pointing 
her  remark  by  a  glance  at  Franz  and  the  empty  bottle.  "  Body 
and  soul  will  both  be  sacrificed  here.  I  shall  not  let  this  mat- 
ter rest,  and  if  I  find  that  you  have  no  legal  authority — " 

But  again  fury  overmasters  prudence.  Mamma  springs 
toward  her  with  a  yell  of  rage. 

"  Ah,  you  cat-o'-the- world,"  she  cries,  "  go  home  with  yer 
pious  cant !  The  gal's — " 

The  words  die  away  in  a  gurgle;  the  hand  of  Franz, 
roughly  pressed  against  her  mouth,  has  stopped  her  utterance. 

"  Oh,  get  out,  old  woman !"  he  exclaims,  pushing  her  away 
and  steadying  himself  after  the  effort.  "Ye're  gittin'  too 
familiar,  ye  air." 

Then  seeing  that  the  Sister,  convinced  of  her  inability  to 
reason  with  the  unreasonable,  had  turned  to  go,  he  cried 
out: 


204  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Hold  on,  mum;  if  ye  want  that  gal,  ye  kin  have  her 
I'm  runnin'  this." 

"  I  shall  not  forget  that  poor  creature,"  says  the  Sister,  still 
addressing  Mamma  and  ignoring  Franz;  "and  if  I  find  that 
she  is  not — " 

She  leaves  the  sentence  unfinished,  for  Mamma  darts  to- 
ward her  with  extended  clutches,  and  is  only  restrained  by 
Papa's  stoutest  efforts,  aided  by  the  hand  of  Franz,  which  once 
more  comes  forcibly  in  contact  with  the  virago's  mouth,  just 
as  it  opens  to  pour  forth  fresh  imprecations. 

To  linger  is  worse  than  folly,  and  the  Sister,  casting  a  pity- 
ing glance  toward  the  girl,  who  is  now  slowly  struggling  up, 
turns  away  and  goes  sadly  out  from  the  horrible  place. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

FRANZ  FRANCOISE  BELLIGERENT. 

After  the  departure  of  the  Sister  of  Mercy,  an  unnatural 
silence  brooded  over  the  room ;  a  silence,  not  a  stillness,  for 
Mamma  Francoise,  uttering  no  word,  dragged  the  unfortunate 
Nance  to  one  of  the  pallets,  forced  the  remainder  of  the  warm 
liquor  down  her  throat,  and  then  pushed  her  back  upon  the 
pallet,  where  she  lay  a  dirty,  moveless,  stupid  heap  of  wretched 
humanity. 

Then  Mamma  seated  herself  upon  the  one  unoccupied  stool, 
and  glared  alternately  at  the  two  men. 

Papa  Francoise  was  evidently  both  disturbed  and  alarmed 
at  this  visit  from  the  Sister  of  Mercy,  and  he  seemed  intent 


FRANZ  FRANCOISE  BELLIGERENT.  '   205 

upon  solving  some  new  problem  propounded  to  him  by  the 
scene  just  ended. 

Franz  leered  and  lounged,  with  seeming  indifference  to  all 
his  surroundings.  His  recent  potations  were  evidently  taking 
effect,  for  after  a  few  moments,  during  which  he  made  very 
visible  efforts  to  look  alert,  and  interested  in  the  discussion 
which,  as  he  seemed  vaguely  to  realize,  was  impending,  he 
brought  himself  unsteadily  to  his  feet,  staggered  across  the 
room,  and  flinging  himself  upon  the  unoccupied  pallet,  mut- 
tered some  incoherent  words  and  subsided  into  stillness  and 
slumber. 

The  eyes  of  the  old  woman  followed  his  movements  with 
anxious  interest,  and  when  he  seemed  at  last  lost  to  all  ordinary 
sound,  she  arose  and  carried  her  stool  across  to  where  Papa, 
leaning  against  the  table,  still  meditated. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  in  low,  peremptory  tones,  and  push- 
ing the  stool  lately  vacated  by  Franz  toward  her  spouse;  "sit 
down.  We're  in  a  pretty  mess,  ain't  we  ?" 

Papa  seated  himself  and  favored  her  with  a  vacant  stare. 

"Eh!"  he  said,  absently ;  "what's  to  be  done?" 

Mamma  cast  a  quick  look  toward  her  recumbent  Prodigal, 
and  leaned  forward  until  her  lips  touched  the  old  man's 
ear. 

"  Mind  this,"  she  hissed ;  "  he  ain't  to  know  too  much.  He's 
got  the  devil  in  him;  it  won't  do  to  put  ourselves  under  his 
thumb." 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  retorted  Papa,  in  the  same  sharp 
whisper,  "I  ain't  anxious  to  be  rode  by  the  two  of  ye; 
Franzy's  too  much  like  his  ma.  It  won't  do  to  let  him  know 
everything." 

Mamma  gave  a  derisive  sniff,  a  sort  of  acknowledgment 


206  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

of  the  compliment — one  of  the  only  kind  ever  paid  her  by 
her  worser  half, — and  then  said : 

"  Franzy'll  be  a  big  help  to  us,  if  we  can  keep  him  away 
from  the  cops.  But  you  an'  me  has  planned  too  long  to  let 
him  step  in  now  an'  take  things  out  of  our  hands.  He's  too 
reckless;  we  wouldn't  move  fast  enough  to  suit  him,  an' — he'd 
make  us  trouble." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  old  man,  "  he'd  have  things  his  own 
way,  or  he'd  make  us  trouble ;  he  always  did." 

Mamma  arose,  stirred  the  smouldering  fire,  and  resuming 
her  seat,  began  afresh : 

"  Now,  then,  we've  got  to  decide  about  that  gal.  She  can't 
go  to  no  hospital  ?" 

"No;  she  can't." 

"  And  she  can't  stay  with  us.  It  was  a  big  risk  before ; 
now  that  Franzy  is  back,  it's  a  bigger  risk." 

"That's  so."  Papa  wrinkled  his  brows  for  a  moment  and 
then  said :  "  See  here,  old  woman,  Franz  '11  be  bound  ter  know 
something  about  that  gal  when  he  gits  his  head  clear." 

"  I  s'pose  so." 

"Well,  s'pose  we  tell  him  about  her." 

"What  for?" 

"Ter  satisfy  him,  an'  ter  git  his  help." 

"His  help?"  muttered  Mamma.     "  That  might  do." 

Suddenly  Papa  lifted  a  warning  finger.  "Hush,"  he 
whispered;  "there's  somebody  outside  o'  that  door." 

A  low,  firm  knock  put  a  period  to  his  sentence.  Mamma 
made  a  sign  which  meant  caution,  and  then  creeping  noiselessly 
to  the  door,  listened.  No  sound  could  be  heard  from  with- 
out, and  after  another  moment  of  waiting  she  called  sharply: 

"Who's  there?" 


FRANZ  FRANCOISE  BELLIGERENT.  207 

"  Open  de  do' ;  I's  got  a  message  fo'  yo'." 

The  voice,  and  the  unmistakable  African  dialect,  reassured 
the  pair,  whose  only  dread  was  the  police;  and  to  barricade 
their  doors  against  chance  visitors  was  110  part  of  the  Fran- 
coise  policy. 

Mamma  glided  toward  the  pallet  where  lay  her  returned 
Prodigal,  and  bent  above  him. 

His  face  was  turned  outward  toward  the  door,  and  putting 
two  strong  hands  beneath  his  shoulders,  she  applied  her  strength 
to  the  task  of  rolling  him  over,  drew  a  ragged  blanket  well 
up  about  him,  and  left  him  lying  thus,  his  face  to  the  wall 
and  completely  hidden  from  whoever  might  enter. 

Then  she  went  boldly  to  the  door,  and  opening  it  wide, 
stood  face  to  face  with  a  tall  African,  black  as  ebony,  and 
wearing  a  fine  suit  of  broadcloth,  poorly  concealed  underneath 
a  shabby  outer  garment.  He  bowed  to  Mamma  as  obsequi- 
ously as  if  she  were  a  duchess,  and  this  garret  her  drawing- 
room,  and  stepping  inside,  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"You  will  excuse  me,"  he  said,  politely,  "but  my  business 
is  private,  and  some  one  might  come  up  the  stairs." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

The  incautious  words  were  uttered  by  Papa  Francoise,  who, 
noting  the  entire  absence  of  his  negro  accent,  arose  hastily,  his 
face  full  of  alarm. 

The  African  smiled  blandly. 

"I  assumed  my  accent  in  order  to  reassure  you,  sir,"  he 
said,  coolly.  "You  might  not  have  admitted  me  if  you  had 
thought  me  a  white  man,  and  I  am  sent  by  your  patron." 

"  By  our  patron !"  Mamma  echoed  his  words  in  skeptical 
surprise. 

f<Yes;  I  am  his  servant." 


208  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Papa  and  Mamma  gazed  at  each  other  blankly  and  drew 
nearer  together. 

"He  has  sent  you  this  note/'  pursued  the  nonchalant  fellow, 
keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  Mamma's  face  while  he  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  folded  paper.  "And  I  am  to  take  your 
answer." 

Papa  took  the  proffered  note  reluctantly,  glanced  at  the 
superscription,  and  suddenly  changed  his  manner. 

"That  is  not  directed  to  me,"  he  cried,  sharply.  "You 
have  made  a  mistake." 

"  It  is  directed  to  Papa  Francoise." 

Papa  peered  closer  at  the  superscription.  "Yes;  I  think 
that's  it.  It's  not  my  name ;  it's  not  for  me." 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  know  you  too  well.  You  need  not  fear 
me ;  I  am  Mr.  Warburton's  body  servant." 

"Oh  !"  Mamma  uttered  the  syllable  sharply,  then  suddenly 
restrained  herself,  and  coming  toward  the  messenger  with  cat- 
like tread,  she  said,  coaxingly :  "  And  who  may  this  Mr. 
War — war,  this  master  of  yours  be  ?" 

The  man  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then  turned  his 
gaze  upon  the  occupants  of  the  two  pallets.  "  Who  are 
these  ?"  he  asked,  briefly. 

Mamma's  answer  came  very  promptly. 

"Only  two  poor  people  we  knew  in  another  part  of  the 
city.  They  have  been  turned  out  by  their  landlord,  poor 
things,  and  last  night  they  slept  in  the  street." 

A  smile  crossed  the  face  of  the  wily  African,  and  he  turned 
toward  Papa. 

"Read  my  master's  note,  if  you  please,"  he  said.  "  It  was 
written  to  you" 

Slowly  Papa  unfolded  the  note,  and  his  eyes  seemed  burst- 
ing from  their  sockets  as  he  read. 


FKAKZ  FRANCOISE  BELLIGERENT.  209 

Name  your  price,  but  keep  your  whereabouts  from  the  police.  If 
you  are  called  upon  to  identify  me,  you  do  not  know  me. 

While  Papa  reads,  the  slumbering  Franz  begins  to  move 
and  to  mutter. 

"  Give  me  the  file,  Jim,"  he  says,  in  a  low,  cautious  tone. 
"  Curse  the  darbies — I — " 

The  sudden  overturning  of  a  stool,  caused  by  a  quick  back- 
ward movement  on  the  part  of  Mamma,  drowns  the  rest  of 
this  muttered  speech. 

But  the  words  have  caught  the  ear  of  the  colored  gentleman, 
who  moves  a  pace  nearer  the  sleeper,  and  seems  anxious  to 
hear  more. 

While  Papa  still  stares  at  the  note  in  his  hand,  Mamma 
stoops  and  restores  the  stool  to  its  upright  position,  making 
even  more  noise  than  in  the  overturning.  And  Franz  turns, 
yawns,  stretches,  and  slowly  brings  himself  to  a  sitting  pos- 
ture. 

Something  like  a  frown  crosses  the  dark  face  of  Papa  Fran- 
coise's  visitor.  To  bring  himself  face  to  face  with  Papa,  and 
to  satisfy  himself  on  certain  doubtful  points,  he  has  paused 
for  neither  food  nor  rest,  but  has  followed  up  his  discovery 
of  the  morning,  by  an  evening's  visit  to  the  new  lurking-place 
of  the  Francoises, — for  the  sable  gentleman,  who  would  fain 
win  the  confidence  of  Papa  in  the  character  of  body  servant 
to  Alan  Warburton,  is  none  other  than  Van  Vernet. 

Fertile  in  construction,  daring  in  execution,  he  has  hoped 
by  a  bold  stroke  to  make  a  most  important  disco  very.  View- 
ing the  events  of  the  morning  from  a  perfectly  natural  stand- 
point, he  has  rapidly  reached  the  following  conclusion : 

If  the  fugitive  Sailor  and  Alan  \Yarburton  are  one  and  the 

H 


210  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

same,  then,  undoubtedly,  the  message  left  by  Mamma  at  the 
door  of  the  Warburtons  was  intended  for  Alan.  What  was 
the  purport  of  that  message,  he  may  find  it  difficult  to  dis- 
cover,— but  may  he  not  be  able  to  surprise  from  Papa  an  ac- 
knowledgment of  his  connection  with  the  aristocrat  of  War- 
burton  place? 

To  arrest  the  Francoises  was,  at  present,  no  part  of  his  plan. 
This  would  be  to  alarm  Alan  Warburton,  and  to  lessen  his 
own  chances  for  making  discoveries.  He  had  found  Papa 
Francoise,  and  it  would  be  strange  if  he  again  escaped  from 
his  surveillance. 

He  had  not  counted  upon  the  presence  of  a  third,  and  even 
a  fourth  party,  in  paying  his  visit  to  the  Francoises.  And 
now,  as  the  recumbent  Franz  began  to  move  and  to  mutter, 
Van  Vernet  turned  toward  the  pallet  a  keen  and  suspicious 
glance. 

But  never  was  there  a  more  manifest  combination  of  drowsi- 
ness and  drunken  stupidity  than  that  displayed  upon  the  face  of 
Franz,  as  he  raised  himself  upon  the  pallet  and  stared  stupidly 
at  the  ebonied  stranger. 

Then  a  look  of  abject  terror  crept  into  his  face,  and  he 
seemed  making  a  powerful  eifort  to  rouse  his  drunken  facul- 
ties. Slowly  he  rose  from  the  pallet,  and  staggered  to  his 
feet,  muttering  some  unintelligible  words.  Then,  after  a 
stealthy  glance  about  the  room,  he  turned  and  reeled  toward 
the  door. 

As  he  approached,  Van  Vernet,  still  gazing  steadfastly  into 
his  face,  stepped  aside,  and  at  the  instant  Franz  made  a  lurch 
in  the  same  direction. 

In  another  moment, — neither  Papa  nor  Mamma  could  have 
told  how  it  came  about3 — the  two  were  upon  the  floor,  Frj'.r/ 


IN  DURANCE  VILE.  211 

Francoise  uppermost,  his  knees  upon  the  breast  of  his  an- 
tagonist ! 

As  Van  Vernet,  who  had  fallen  with  one  arm  underneath 
him,  made  his  first  movement  in  self-defence,  his  ears  were 
greeted  by  a  warning  hiss,  and  he  felt  the  pressure  of  a  keen- 
edged  knife  against  his  throat ! 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

IN  DURANCE  VILE. 

This  onslaught,  so  swift  and  unexpected,  took  Papa  and 
Mamma  completely  by  surprise,  and,  for  the  moment,  threw 
even  Vernet  off  his  guard. 

"  Scoundrel !"  he  exclaimed,  while  the  menacing  knife 
pressed  against  his  throat;  "what  does  this  mean?" 

For  answer,  Franz  shot  a  glance  toward  the  two  elder  Fran- 
coises, and  said  in  a  hoarse,  unnatural  whisper : 

"  Deek  the  cove  ;*  he's  no  dark  lantern !" 

"Eh!"  from  Papa,  in  a  frightened  gasp. 

"Done!"  from  Mamma,  in  an  angry  hiss. 

And  then,  as  the  two  started  forward,  Vernet,  realizing 
that  this  shrewd  ruffian  had  somehow  penetrated  his  disguise, 
gathered  all  his  strength  and  began  a  fierce  struggle  for 
liberty. 

As  they  writhed  together  upon  the  floor,  Franz  shot  out 
another  sentence,  this  time  without  turning  his  head. 

"  A  dead  act,"  he  hissed ;  "  we're  copped  tQ  rights !" 

*  Look  at  him. 


212  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Which,  being  rendered  into  English,  meant:  "Combine  the 
attack;  we  are  in  danger  of  arrest." 

And  then  the  struggle  became  a  question  of  three  to  one. 

Vernet  fought  valiantly,  but  he  lay  at  last  captive  under 
the  combined  clutch  of  Papa  and  Franz,  and  menaced  by  the 
knife  which  Mamma,  having  snatched  it  from  the  hand  of  her 
hopeful  son,  held  above  his  head. 

Instinctively  the  two  elder  outlaws  obeyed  the  few  Avords 
of  command  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  their  returned  Prodigal ; 
and  in  spite  of  his  splendid  resistance,  Van  Vernet  was  bound 
hand  and  foot,  a  prisoner  in  the  power  of  the  Francoises. 

His  clothing  was  torn  and  disarranged;  his  wig  was  all 
awry;  and  large  patches  of  his  sable  complexion  had  trans- 
ferred themselves  from  his  countenance  to  the  hands  and  gar- 
ments of  his  captors. 

"No  dark  lantern,"  indeed.  The  natural  white  shone  in 
spots  through  its  ebony  coating,  and  three  people  less  fiercely 
in  earnest  than  the  Francoises  would  have  gone  wild  with 
merriment,  so  ludicrous  was  the  plight  of  the  hapless  detective. 

"Now  then,"  began  Franz,  in  a  low  gutteral  that  caused 
Mamma  to  start,  and  Papa  to  favor  him  with  a  stare  of  sur- 
prise; "now  then,  no  tricks,  my  cornered  cop.  You  may  talk, 
but — "  and  he  glanced  significantly  from  the  knife  in  Mamma's 
hand  to  the  pistol  now  in  his  own, — "be  careful  about  raising 
y.er  voice;  you've  got  pals  in  the  street,  maybe.  You  may 
pipe  to  them,  but, — "  with  a  click  of  the  pistol, — "ye're  a 
dead  man  before  they  can  lift  a  hoof!" 

Vernet's  eyes  blazed  with  wrath,  but  he  maintained  a  scorn- 
ful silence. 

The  three  Francoises,  without  withdrawing  their  gaze  from 
their  prisoner,  consulted  in  harsh  whispers.  It  was  a  brief 


"In  another  moment,  the  two  were  upon  the  floor,  Franz  Francoise 
uppermost!"— page  210. 

213 


214  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

consultation,  but  it  was  long  enough  for  Van  Vernet  to  de- 
cide upon  his  course  of  action. 

"Now  then,  ray  bogus  dark  lantern,"  began  Franz,  who 
had  evidently  been  chosen  spokesman  for  the  trio,  "  what's  yer 
business  here?" 

"Why  don't  you  begin  at  the  beginning?"  retorted  Vernet, 
scornfully.  "  You  have  not  asked  who  I  am." 

"Umph;  we'll  find  out  who  ye  air — when  we  want  to. 
We  know  what  ye  air,  and  that's  enough  for  us  just  at  present." 

"Might  I  be  allowed  to  ask  what  you  take  me  for?" 

"Yes;  a  cop,"  retorted  Franz,  decidedly.  "Enough  said 
on  that  score;  now,  what's  yer  lay?" 

"  I  suppose,"  began  Vernet,  mockingly,  "  that  you  didn't 
hear  the  little  conversation  between  that  nice  old  gent  there 
and  myself?" 

"Look  here,"  said  Franz,  with  an  angry  gesture,  "don't  fool 
with  me.  Ef  you've  got  any  business  with  me,  say  so." 

"Don't  bully,"  retorted  Vernet,  contemptuously.  "You 
were  not  asleep  when  I  entered  this  room." 

Franz  seemed  to  hesitate  and  then  said:  "S'posin'  I 
wasn't,  wot's  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"If  you  were  awake,  you  know  my  errand." 

"Look  here,  Mister  Cop, — "  Franz  handled  his  pistol 
as  if  strongly  tempted  to  use  it, — "we'd  better  come  to  an 
understandin'  pretty  quick.  I  am  kinder  lookin'  for  visits 
from  chaps  of  your  cloth.  I  come  in  here  tired,  and  a  little 
muddled  maybe,  and  flop  down  to  get  a  snooze.  Somethiu' 
wakes  me  and  I  get  up,  to  see — you.  I'm  on  the  lay  for  a 
'  spot,'  an'  I've  seen  too  many  nigs  to  be  fooled  by  yer  git- 
up.  So  I  floor  ye,  an' — here  ye  air.  Now,  what  d'ye  want 
with  me?" 


IN  DtTRANCE  VILE*  215 

"My  good  fellow,"  said  Vernet,  with  an  inconsequent 
laugh,  "  since  you  have  defined  your  position,  I  may,  perhaps, 
enable  you  to  comprehend  mine.  Frankness  for  candor: 
First,  then,  I  am  not  exactly  a  cop,  as  the  word  goes,  but  I 
am  a — a  sort  of  private  enquirer." 

"A  detective!"  hissed  Mamma;  while  Papa  turned  livid  at  the 
thought  the  word  "detective"  always  suggested  to  his  mind. 

"A  detective,  if  you  like,"  responded  Vernet,  coolly.  "A 
private  detective,  be  it  understood.  My  belligerent  friend, 
you  may  be  badly  wanted  for  something,  and  I  hope  you'll  be 
found  by  the  right  parties,  but  you're  not  in  my  line.  Just 
now  you  would  be  an  elephant  on  my  hands.  You  might  be 
an  ornament  to  Sing  Sing  or  Auburn,  if  I  had  time  to  properly 
introduce  you  there,  but  I've  no  use  for  you.  My  business  is- 
with  Papa  Francoise  here." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  address  itself,  or  may  be  the  incongruity 
of  the  haughty  tone  and  the  grotesque  face  of  the  speaker, 
that  caused  Franz  Francoise  to  give  rein  to  a  sudden  burst  of 
merriment,  the  signs  of  which  he  seemed  unable  to  suppress 
although  no  audible  laughter  escaped  his  lips.  He  turned,  at 
last,  toward  Papa  and  gasped,  as  if  fairly  strangled  with  his 
own  mirth : 

"  This  kind  and  accommodatin'  gent,  wot  I've  so  misunder- 
stood, has  got  business  with  ye,  old  top." 

Papa  came  slowly  forward,  his  face  expressive  of  fear  rather 
than  curiosity,  followed  by  Mamma,  fierce  and  watchful. 

"You — you  wanted  me?"  began  Papa,  hesitatingly. 

"  I  have  business  with  you,  Papa  Fraucoise.  I  want  to 
talk  with  you  privately,  for  your  interest  and  mine,  ahem." 
He  looked  toward  Franz,  and  seeing  the  stolidity  of  this  in- 
dividual, inquired:  "  Who  is  that  gentleman?'' 


2 1 6  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

His  enunciation  of  the  last  word  probably  excited  the  wrath 
of  Franz,  for  he  came  a  step  nearer,  with  an  aggressive  sneer. 

"My  name's  Jimson,  Mr.  Cop,  an'  I'm  a  friend  of  the 
family.  Anything  else  ye  want  ter  know?" 

With  a  shrug  of  the  shoulder,  Vernet  turned  toward  Papa 
once  more. 

"  I'd  like  to  speak  with  you  alone,  Papa  Francoise,"  he  said 
significantly. 

The  mood  of  mocking  insolence  seemed  deserting  Franz, 
and  a  wrathful  surliness  manifested  itself  in  the  tone  with 
which  he  addressed  Papa. 

"He'd  like  ter  see  ye  alone,  old  Beelzebub,  d'ye  hear?" 

Papa  glanced  hesitatingly  from  one  to  the  other.  He  seemecl 
to  fear  both  the  bound  detective  at  his  feet  and  the  surly  son 
who  stood  near  him,  with  the  menacing  weapon  in  his  hand, 
and  growing  rage  and  suspicion  in  his  countenance. 

Mamma's  quick  eye  noted  the  look  of  suspicion  and  she  in- 
terposed. 

"Ye  can  speak  p.fore  this  gentleman,  Mr.  Cop;  he's  a  very 
intimate  friend." 

A  look  of  annoyance  flashed  in  the  eyes  of  Van  Vernet. 
He  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said  slowly: 

"Does  your  intimate  friend  know  anything  about  the  affair 
iliat  happened  at  your  late  residence  near  Rag  alley,  Papa 
Frnncoise?" 

It  was  probably  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  fumes  of  his  re- 
cent potations  were  working  still,  with  a  secondary  effect,  and 
that  from  sleepy  inertness  he  was  passing  to  a  state  of  un- 
reasoning disputatiousness,  that  Franz,  evidently  by  no  means 
relieved  at  the  transfer  of  Vernet's  attention  from  himself  to 
Papa,  seemed  lashed  into  fury  by  the  manner  of  the  former. 


IN  DURANCE  VILE.  217 

"  May  be  I  know  about  that  affair,  and  may  be  I  don't," 
he  retorted  angrily.  "Look  here,  coppy,  you  want  to  fly  kind 
of  light  round  me;  I  don't  like  yer  style." 

"  I  didn't  come  here  especially  to  fascinate  you,  so  I  am 
not  inconsolable.  I  might  mention,  however,  by  way  of  con- 
tinuing our  charming  frankness,  that  your  style  has  not  com- 
mended itself  to  me."  And  Vernet  emphasized  his  statement 
by  a  jerk  of  his -fetters.  "Now  listen,  my  friends;  I  did  not 
come  here  alone — half  a  dozen  stout  fellows  are  near  t  hand. 
If  I  do  not  return  to  them  in  five  minutes  more,  you  will  see 
them  here.  If  I  call,  you  will  see  them  sooner." 

Franz  raised  the  revolver  to  his  eye  and  squinted  along  the 
barrel. 

"Why  don't  you  call,  then?"  he  inquired. 

"I  don't  want  to  make  a  fuss.  My  errand  is  a  peaceable 
one.  Unbind  me ;  give  me  ten  minutes  alone  with  Papa 
here,  and  I  leave  you, — you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me." 

Franz  shifted  his  position  and  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  You  can't  keep  me,  and  you  dare  not  kill  me,"  continued 
Vernet,  noting  the  impression  he  had  made.  "  All  of  you  are 
in  hiding  from  the  police,  and  to  kill  an  officer  is  conspicuous 
business — not  like  cracking  the  skull  of  a  rag-picker,  Papa 
Francoise.  As  for  you,  my  lad,  you've  got  a  sort  of  State's- 
prison  air  about  you.  I  could  almost  fancy  you  a  chap  I  saw 
behind  the  bars  not  long  ago,  serving  out  a  long  sentence." 

He  paused  to  note  the  effect  of  his  words,  and  was  some- 
what surprised  to  see  Franz  rest  the  revolver  upon  his  knee, 
while  he  continued  to  gaze  at  him  curiously. 

Vernet  had  made,  or  intended  to  make,  a  sharp  home  thrust. 
In  searching  out  the  history  of  the  Francoises,  he  had  stumbled 
upon  the  fact  that  they  had  a  son  in  prison ;  and  the  mutter- 

*10 


218  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

ings  of  Franz,  while  he  lay  upon  the  pallet,  coupled  with 
the  fact  that  Franz  and  Papa  wore  upon  their  heads  locks 
of  the  same  fiery  hue,  had  awakened  in  his  mind  a  strong 
suspicion. 

"  Maybe  ye  might  take  a  fancy  ter  think  I'm  that  same 
feller,"  suggested  Franz,  after  a  moment's  silence.  "  What 
then?" 

"Then,"  replied  Vernet,  "every  moment  that  you  detain 
me  here  increases  your  own  danger." 

"  Humph !"  grunted  Franz,  as  he  rose  and  crossing  to 
Mamma's  side,  began  with  her  a  whispered  conversation. 

Vernet  watched  them  curiously  for  a  moment,  and  then 
turned  his  face  toward  Papa. 

"  Look  here,  Francoise,"  he  began,  somewhat  sternly,  con- 
sidering his  position;  "I've  been  looking  for  you  ever  since 
you  left  the  old  place,  and  I'm  disposed  to  be  friendly.  Now, 
I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  there  is  a  rumor  afloat,  to  the 
effect  that  your  son,  who  was  'sent  up'  years  ago,  has  lately 
broke  jail,  and  that  you  harbor  him.  That  does  not  concern 
me,  however.  This  insolent  fellow,  if  he  is  or  is  not  your 
son,  may  go,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  and  no  harm  shall 
come  to  him  or  you  through  me.  What  I  want  of  you,  is  a 
bit  of  information." 

From  the  moment  of  his  capture,  Vernet  had  believed  him- 
self equal  to  the  situation.  Even  now  he  scarcely  felt  that 
these  people  would  dare  to  do  him  bodily  injury.  As  may 
readily  be  surmised,  his  talk  of  confederates  near  at  hand  was 
all  fiction.  He  had  sought  out  Papa  Francoise  hoping  to  win 
from  him  something  that  would  criminate  Alan  Warburton, 
and  to  use  him  as  a  tool.  To  arrest  Papa  might  frustrate  his 
own  schemes,  and,  in  the  double  game  he  was  playing,  Van 


IN  DUKANCE  VILE.  219 

Vernet  was  too  wise  to  call  upon  the  police  for  assistance  or 
protection. 

"  You  want — information  ?"  queried  Papa ;  "what  about?" 

Vernet  hesitated,  and  then  said  slowly: 

"  I  want  to  know  all  that  you  can  tell  me  about  the  Sailor 
who  killed  Josef  Siebel." 

Papa  gasped,  stammered,  and  turned  his  face  toward  Franz, 
who  now  came  forward,  saying  fiercely: 

"Look  here,  my  fly  cop,  afore  ye  ask  any  more  important 
questions,  just  answer  a  few." 

"Take  care,  jail  bird!"  cried  Vernet,  enraged  at  his  per- 
sistent interference,  "or  I  may  give  the  police  a  chance  to  ask 
you  a  question  too  many  !" 

"  Ye've  got  to  git  out  of  my  clutches  first,"  hissed  Franz 
Francoise,  "  and  yer  chances  fer  that  are  slim !" 

As  the  young  ruffian  bent  close  to  him,  Vernet,  for  the  first 
time,  fully  realized  his  danger.  But  his  cry  for  help  was 
smothered  by  the  hands  of  his  captor,  and  in  another  moment 
he  was  gagged  by  the  expeditious  fingers  of  the  old  woman, 
and  his  head  and  face  closely  muffled  iii  a  dirty  cloth  from  the 
nearest  pallet. 

"There,"  said  Mamma,  rising  from  her  knees  with  a  grin 
of  triumph,  "we've  got  him  fast.  Open  the  door,  old  man, 
he's  going  into  the  closet  for — " 

"  For  a  little  while,"  put  in  Franz,  significantly. 

Into  a  rear  room,  across  this,  and  into  the  dark  hole,  which 
Mamma  had  dignified  by  the  name  of  closet,  they  carried  their 
luckless  prisoner,  bound  beyond  hope  of  self-deliverance, 
gagged  almost  to  suffocation,  his  eyes  blinded  to  any  ray  of 
light,  his  ears  muffled  to  any  sound  that  might  penetrate  his 
dungeon. 


220  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 


CHAPTER  XX 
FRANZ  FRANCHISE'S  GENERALSHIP. 

When  the  three  had  returned  to  the  outer  room,  Papa  turned 
anxiously  toward  his  hopeful  son. 

"  Franz,  my  boy,"  he  began,  in  a  quavering  voice,  "  if 
there  should  be  cops  outside — " 

"  Ye're  the  same  whiuiu'  old  coward,  ain't  ye?"  commented 
Franz,  as  he  favored  his  father  with  a  contemptuous  glance. 
"  I've  seen  a  good  many  bad  eggs,  but  blow  me  if  I  ever  seed 
one  like  ye!  Why,  in  the  name  o'  blazes,  air  ye  more  afraid 
of  a  cop  than  you'd  be  o'  the  hangman  ?" 

The  mention  of  this  last-named  public  benefactor,  caused 
Papa  to  shiver  violently,  and  Mamma  bent  upon  him  a  look 
of  scorn. 

"  Don't  be  an  idiot,  Francoise,"  she  said,  sharply.  "We've 
got  somethin'  to  do  besides  shakin'  an'  shiverin'  ?" 

"  Time  enough  ter  shiver  when  the  hangman  gits  ye," 
added  Franz,  reassuringly.  "  But  ye  needn't  fret  about  cops — 
I  ain't  no  baby;  there  ain't  no  backers  outside." 

"  But,  Franzy, — "  began  Papa. 

"Shet  up;  I'm  runnin'  this.  If  there'd  a-been  any  help 
outside,  wo  wouldn't  a-had  it  so  easy,  you  old  fool !  That 
cove  in  there  ain't  no  coward;  he'd  a  taken  the  chances  with 
us,  and  blowed  his  horn  when  we  first  tackled  him,  if  there'd 
been  help  handy." 

"Ah,  what  a  brain  the  boy  has  got!"  murmured  Mamma, 
with  rapturous  pride. 


FRANZ  FRANCHISE'S  GENERALSHIP.  221 

"  Look  a-here,"  said  Franz,  after  a  moment's  consideration, 
"I'm  satisfied  that  there  ain't  no  cops  about;  but  to  set  yer 
mind  at  rest,  old  un,  so  that  you  kin  use  it  ter  help  git  to  the 
bottom  of  this  business,  I'll  go  and  take  a  look  around,  and 
I'll  be  back  in  jest  five  minutes."  And  he  made  a  quick  stride 
toward  the  door. 

"  Now,  Franzy, — "  began  Mamma,  coaxingly. 

But  he  waved  her  back,  saying :  "  Shut  up,  old  woman ; 
I'm  runnin'  this,"  and  went  swiftly  out. 

When  the  sound  of  his  retreating  footsteps  was  lost  to  their 
ears,  Papa  and  Mamma  drew  close  together,  and  looked  into 
each  others'  faces — he  anxiously,  she  with  a  leer  of  shrewd 
significance. 

"Old  man,"  she  said,  impressively,  "that  boy'll  be  the 
makin'  of  us — if  we  don't  let  him  git  us  down." 

"Eh!  what?" 

"  He's  got  your  cunnin'  an'  mine  together,  and  he's  got  all 
the  grit  you  lack." 

"  Well,"  impatiently. 

"But  he'll  want  to  run  us.  Ar'  when  he  knows  all  we 
know,  he'd  put  his  foot  on  us  if  we  git  in  his  way." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  old  man,  with  a  cunning  wink,  "  he's 
like  his  ma — considerable." 

"On  account  o'  this  here  cop  business,"  went  on  Mamma, 
ignoring  the  thrust,  "he'll  have  to  be  told  a  little  about  that 
Siebel  affair.  But  about  the  rest — not  a  word.  We  kin 
run  the  other  business  without  his  assistance.  Franzy's  a  fine 
boy,  an'  I'm  proud  of  him,  but  'twon't  do,  as  I  told  you  afore, 
to  give  him  too  much  power.  I  know  the  lad." 

"Yes,"  insinuated  Papa,  with  a  dry  cough,  "I  reckon 
you  do." 


222  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  Ye  kin  see  by  the  way  he  took  the  lead  to-night,  that  he 
won't  play  no  second  part.  We'll  have  to  tell  him  about 
Siebel— " 

"  An'  about  Nance." 

"It's  the  same  thing;  an'  ye'll  see  what  he  does  when  we 
give  him  an  idea  about  it." 

"I  know  \vli:it  he'll  do;"  with  a  crafty  wink.  "Til  tell 
him  all  about  Xance." 

"Yes,"  muttered  the  old  woman,  "ye're  good  at  lyin',  and 
all  the  sneakin'  dodges." 

And  she  turned  upon  her  heel,  and  went  over  to  the  pallet 
where  Nance,  undisturbed  by  the  events  transpiring  around 
her,  still  lay  as  she  had  fallen  in  her  drunken  stupor. 

"There's  another  thing,"  said  Mamma,  apparently  satisfied 
with  her  survey  of  the  unconscious  girl,  and  returning  to  Papa 
as  she  spoke.  "  We've  got  to  git  out  of  here,  of  course,  as 
soon  as  we've  settled  that  spy  in  there." 

"  We'd  a-had  to  git  out  anyhow,"  muttered  Papa,  "  on  ac- 
count of  that  charity  minx.  Yes,  we  will ;  an'  we  hain't 
heard  from  her.  You'll  have  to  visit  her  agin." 

"  I  s'pose  so.  An'  when  I  do — that  cop's  comin'  has  given 
me  an  idea — I'll  bring  her  to  time." 

"How?" 

Mamma  leaned  toward  him,  and  touched  his  shoulder  with 
her  bony  forefinger. 

"Just  as  that  cop  'ud  have  brought  you  to  time,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  Franzy's  comin'." 

Over  Papa's  wizened  face  a  look  of  startled  intelligence 
slowly  spread  itself. 

"Old  woman,"  he  ejaculated,  "Satan  himself  wouldn't  a- 
thought  of  that!  The  devil  will  be  proud  of  ye,  some  day, 
JJut  Franzy  mustn't  see  the  gal," 


FRANZ  FRANCHISE'S  GENERALSHIP.  223 

"I'll  manage  that,"  said  Mamma.  "It's  risky,  but  it's  the 
only  way;  I'll  manage  it." 

They  had  heard  no  sound,  although  as  they  talked  they 
also  listened,  but  while  the  last  words  yet  lingered  on  the  old 
woman's  lips,  the  door  suddenly  opened  and  Franz  entered. 

"  There's  no  danger,"  he  said,  closing  the  door  and  securing 
it  carefully.  "  Ye  kin  breathe  easy,  old  top ;  we're  a  good 
deal  safer  jest  now  than  our  '  dark  lantern'  in  there,"  and  he 
nodded  toward  the  inner  room. 

"Then,"  put  in  Mamma, "  while  we're  safe,  we'd  better  make 
him  safe." 

"Don't  git  in  a  hurry,  old  un;  we  want  a  better  under- 
standin'  afore  we  tackle  his  case.  Come,  old  rook,  git  up  here, 
an'  let's  take  our  bearings." 

He  perched  himself  upon  the  rickety  table,  and  Papa  and 
Mamma  drew  the  stools  up  close  and  seated  themselves 
thereon. 

"Now  then,"  began  Franz,  "who  did  yon  nipped  cove  come 
here  to  see,  you  or  me,  old  un  ?  He  'pears  to  know  a  little 
about  us  both." 

"  Yes,"  assented  Papa,  "  so  he  does." 

"What  he  knows  about  me,  I  reckon  he  told,"  resumed 
Franz.  "Now,  what's  the  killin'  affair  mentioned?" 

Papa  seemed  to  ponder  a  moment,  and  then  lifted  his  eyes 
to  his  son's  face  with  a  look  of  bland  ingenuousness. 

"It's  a  kind  of  delicate  affair,  my  boy,"  he  began,  in  a  tone 
of  confidential  frankness,  "but  'twont  do  for  us  to  have  secrets 
from  each  other — will  it,  old  woman?" 

"  No,"  said  Mamma;  "  Franzy's  our  right  hand  now.  You 
ort  to  tell  him  all  about  it." 

*•'  Oh,  git  along,"  burst  in  Franz,     "Give  us  the  racket^  aa' 


224  DANGEKOUS  GROUND. 

cut  it   mighty   short — time   enough   for   pertikelers   later." 

"  Quite  right,  my  boy,"  said  Papa,  briskly.  "  Well,  here 
it  is :  I — I'm  wanted,  for  a  witness,  in  a — a  murder  case." 

"  Oh,"  groaned  Franz,  in  tones  of  exaggerated  grief,  "  my 
heart  is  broke !" 

"  You  needn't  laugh,  Franzy,"  remonstrated  Papa,  ag- 
grieved. "It's  the  business  I  was  tellin'  you  about — at  the 
other  place,  you  know." 

"  Well,  see  here,  old  un,  my  head's  been  considerable  mixed 
to-night;  seems  to  me  ye  did  tell  me  a  yarn,  but  tell  it 
agin." 

"  Why,  there's  not  much  of  it.  We  was  doing  well;  I 
bought  rags  an' — an'  things." 

"Rags  an'  things — oh,  yes  !" 

"An'  we  was  very  comfortable.  But  one  night — "  and 
Papa  turned  his  eyes  toward  Mamma,  as  if  expecting  her  to 
confirm  all  that  he  said — "  one  night,  when  there  was  a  num- 
ber there,  a  fight  broke  out.  We  was  in  another  room,  the 
old  woman  an'  me, — " 

"  Yes,"  interjected  Mamma,  "  we  was." 

"An'  we  ran  in,  an'  tried  to  stop  the  fight." 

Mamma  nodded  approvingly. 

"But  we  wasn't  strong  enough.  Before  we  could  see  who 
did  it,  a  man  was  killed.  And  in  a  minute  we  heard  the 
police  coming.  Before  they  got  there,  we  had  all  left,  and 
they  found  no  one  but  the  dead  man  to  arrest.  Ever  since, 
they've  been  try  in'  to  find  out  who  did  the  killin'." 

"  Um  !"  grunted  Franz,  "  and  did  you  tell  me  they  had  ar- 
rested somebody  ?" 

"  No,  my  boy.  They  caught  one  fellow,  a  sailor,  but  he 
got  away." 


FRANZ  FRANCHISE'S  GENERALSHIP.  225 

"  Oh,  he  got  away.  How  many  was  there,  at  the  time  of 
thekillin'?" 

"  There  were  three  in  the  room,  besides  the  man  that  was 
killed,  and  there  was  the  old  woman  and  me  in  the  next 
room." 

"  You  forgit,"  interrupts  Mamma,  "  there  was  Nance." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  rejoined  Papa,  as  if  grateful  for  the  correction, 
"there  was  Nance." 

Franz  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  sleeping  girl,  and 
then  asked  sharply:  "And  what  was  Nance  doin'." 

"  Nance  was  layin'  on  a  pile  o'  rags  in  a  corner,"  broke  in 
Mamma,  "  an'  I  had  to  drag  her  out." 

Franz  gave  utterance  to  something  between  a  grunt  and  a 
chuckle. 

"So  you  dragged  her  out,  did  ye?  'Taint  exactly  in  your 
line  neither,  doiu'  that  sort  o'  thing.  Ye  must  a-thought  that 
gal  worth  savin'." 

"She  ain't  worth  savin'  now,"  broke  in  Papa,  hastily. 
"  She's  a  stone  around  our  necks." 

u  That's  a  fact,"  said  Mamma.  "  An'  it's  all  in  consequence 
of  that  white-faced  charity  tramp's  meddlin'  we've  got  to  get 
out  of  here,  an'  we'll  be  tracked  wherever  we  go  by  that 
drunken  gal's  bein'  along." 

"Well,  ye  ain't  obliged  ter  take  her,  are  ye?"  queried 
Franz,  as  if  this  part  of  the  subject  rather  bored  him.  "  Your 
keepin'  her  looks  all  rot  to  me.  She  ain't  good  for  nothin' 
that  I  kin  see,  only  to  spoil  good  whiskey." 

Papa  and  Mamma  exchanged  glances,  and  then  Papa  said  : 

"Jest  so,  my  boy;  she  spoils  good  whiskey,  but  she's  safer 
so  than  without  it.  We  kin  afford  to  keep  her  better  than  we 

kin  afford  to  turn  her  loose." 

15 


*J2G  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  D'ye  mean  ter  say,"  queried  Franz,  "that  if  that  gal  knew 
anything,  she'd  know  too  much  ?" 

"That's  about  it,  my  boy." 

Franz  gave  vent  to  a  lo\v  whistle.  "So,"  he  said;  "an' 
that's  why  ye  keep  her  full  o'  drugged  liquor,  eh?  I'll  lay 
a  pipe  that's  the  old  woman's  scheme.  Have  I  hit  the  mark, 
say?" 

"Yes,  Franzy." 

"  Yes,  my  boy." 

"  Then  what  the  dickens  are  ye  mincin'  about  ?  Why  don't 
ye  settle  the  gal  afore  we  pad  ?" 

"Easy,  my  boy,  easy,"  remonstrates  Papa. 

"  Just  wot  /say,  Franz,"  puts  i  n  Ma  m  ma.  "  When  we  leave 
here,  it  won't  be  safe  for  us  to  take  her — nor  for  you,  either." 

" Safe!"  cried  Franz,  springing  from  the  table  with  excited 
manner;  "safe!  It 'ud  be  ruination!  Afore  to-morrow  we 
must  be  out  o'  this.  I  ain't  goin'  to  run  no  chances.  If  'twas 
safe  to  turn  her  loose,  I'd  say  do  it.  I  don't  believe  in  ex- 
tinguishiu'  anybody  when  'taint  necessary ;  but  when  'tis, 
why — "  He  finishes  the  sentence  with  a  significant  gesture. 

"But,  Franz — "  begins  Mamma,  making  a  feint  at  remon- 
strance. 

"You  shet  up!"  he  exclaims;  "I'm  runnin' this.  The 
gal's  been  tried  an'  condemned — -jest  leave  her  to  me,  an'  pass 
on  to  the  next  pint.  Have  ye  got  a  hen-roost  handy?" 

"D'ye  think  we're  in  our  dotage,  Franzy,"  said  Papa  plain- 
tively, "  that  ye  ask  us  such  a  question  ?  Did  ye  ever  know 
us  to  be  without  two  perches?" 

"  Well,  is  it  safe,  then  ?" 

"  If  we  kin  git  there  without  bein'  tracked,  it's  safe 
enough," 


FRANZ  FRANCHISE'S  GENERALSHIP.  227 

"  Well,"  said  Franz,  "  we  kin  do  that  ef  we  git  an  early 
start,  afore  our  prisoner  is  missed.  As  soon  as  it's  still  enough, 
an'  late  enough,  we'll  mizzle." 

"  Wot's  yer  plan,  Franzy?" 

"  Easy  as  a,  b,  c.  You  an'  the  old  woman  lead  the  way,  ter 
make  sure  that  there  won't  be  nobody  ter  bother  me,  when  I 
come  after  with  the  gal." 

"With  the  gal?" 

"  Yes ;  ye  don't  want  ter  leave  a  dead  gal  here,  do  ye?  Ye 
might  be  wanted  agin,  fer  a  witness." 

Papa  winced  and  was  silent. 

"  But,  Franz, — "  expostulated  Mamma. 

"  You  shet  up !  I'm  no  chicken."  And  Franz  drew  his 
dirk  and  ran  his  finger  along  the  keen  edge.  "  Here's  my 
plan  :  You  two  give  me  the  bearings  of  the  new  hen-roost,  an' 
then  start  out,  keepin'  a  little  ahead,  an'  goin'  toward  the 
drink.  I'll  rouse  up  the  gal  an'  boost  her  along,  keepin'  close 
enough  to  ye  to  have  ye  on  hand,  to  prove  that  I'm  takin' 
home  my  drunken  sister  if  any  one  asks  questions.  When  we 
get  near  the  drink,  you'll  be  likely  to  miss  me." 

"Oh!" 

"An'  after  awhile  I  may  overtake  ye,  somewhere  about 
hen-roost,  alone  /" 

"Oh,"  said  Mamma,  "you'll  finish  the  job  in  the  drink?" 

"I'll  finish  with  the  drink  but  I'll  begin  with  this."  And 
he  poised  the  naked  dagger  above  Mamma's  head  with  a  gesture 
full  of  significance. 

"But  the  other,"  said  Papa,  with  nervous  eagerness;  "  what 
shall  we  do  with  him  ?" 

"  The  other,"  replied  Franz,  slowly  putting  away  his  knife, 
"  we  will  leave  here," 


228  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"What!"  screamed  Mamma, 

"  But—"  objected  Papa. 

"  Are  ye  a  pack  o'  fools  after  all  ?"  snarled  Franz.  "  A 
dead  cop'll  make  us  more  trouble  than  a  livin'  one.  Ye  kin 
kill  ten  ordinary  mortals  an'  be  safer  than  if  ye  kill  one  cop. 
Kill  ten  men,  they  detai!  a  squad  to  hunt  ye  up  mebby.  Kill 
one  peeler,  an'  you've  got  the  whole  police  force  agin  ye.  No, 
sir  ;  we  bring  him  out  o'  that  closet,  and  leave  him  ter  take 
his  chances.  Before  morning,  we'll  be  where  he  can't  track 
us;  and  somebody'll  let  him  loose  by  to-morrow.  He'll  have 
plenty  o'  time  to  meditate,  and  mebby  it'll  do  him  good." 

There  was  a  look  of  dissatisfaction  in  Mamma's  eyes;  and 
Papa's  assent  was  feeble.  But  already  this  strong-willed 
ruffian  had  gained  an  ascendency  over  them,  and  his  prompti- 
tude in  taking  Nance  so  completely  off  their  hands,  assured 
them  that  it  would  not  be  well  to  cross  him. 

Nevertheless,  as  they  made  their  preparations  for  a  mid- 
'night  flitting,  Papa  and  Mamma,  unseen  by  Franz,  exchanged 
more  than  one  significant  glance. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

FLAMES. 


It  was  past  midnight  when  the  muffled  figures  of  Papa  and 
Mamma  Francoise  emerged  stealthily  from  the  tenement  house, 
and  took  their  way  toward  the  river.  Now  and  then  they 
looked  anxiously  back,  and  constantly  kept  watch  to  the  right 
and  left. 


"Franz  and  Nance,  poor  Nance,  going — wliituer?" — page  280. 


230  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

4.  little  way  behind  them,  two  other  figures  followed ;  the 
man  half  supporting,  half  dragging,  a  reeling,  stupified  girl, 
and  urging  her  along  by  alternate  coaxing  and  threats. 

Franz  and  Nance,  poor  Nance,  going — whither  ? 

Keeping  the  same  path,  and  always  the  same  brief  space 
between  them,  the  four  moved  onward  until  they  were  almost 
at  the  river.  Then,  in  obedience  to  a  low  whistle,  Papa  and 
Mamma  turned,  passed  the  other  two,  and  retraced  their  steps 
swiftly  and  silently.  • 

When  they  had  gone  by,  Franz  Francoise  turned  and 
looked  after  them  until  their  figures  had  vanished  in  the  dark- 
•  ness. 

Then  he  seized  the  arm  of  his  companion,  and  hurried  her 
around  the  nearest  corner  and  on  through  the  gloom ;  on  till 
the  river  was  full  in  sight. 

.  Meanwhile  Van  Vernet,  having  been  brought  out  from  his 
closet-prison,  lay  upon  the  floor  of  the  inner  room  at  the  lately- 
deserted  Francoise  abode,  still  bound,  and  gagged  almost  to 
suffocation,  while,  to  make  his  isolation  yet  more  impressive, 
Mamma  had  tied  a  dirty  rag  tightly  about  his  eyes. 

Left  in  doubt  as  to  the  fate  that  awaited  him — unable  to 
move,  to  see,  or  to  use  his  voice, — Van  Voni  t  lay  as  help- 
lessly ensnared  as  if  he  were  the  veriest  dullard  and  bungler, 
instead  of  the  shrewdest  and  most  daring  member  of  the  force. 

They  had  transferred  him  from  the  closet  to  his  present 
position  in  profound  silence..  He  knew  that  they  were  mov- 
ing about  stealthily — he  could  guess,  from  the  fact  that  but 
one  door  had  been  opened,  and  from  the  short  distance  they 
had  borne  him,  that  he  was  in  the  inner  instead  of  the  outer 
room — he  had  heard  them  moving  about  in  the  next  room, 


FLAMES.  231 

and  had  caught  the  murmur  of  their  voices  as  they  engaged 
iu  what  seemed  a  sharp  dispute,  carried  on  in  guarded  tones — 
then  slower  movements,  sharp  whispers,  and  finally  retreating 
footsteps,  and  the  careful  opening  and  closing  of  a  door. 

After  this,  only  silence. 

Surrounded  by  the  silence  anrl  darkness,  Van  Vernet  could 
only  think.  AVhat  were  their  intentions?  Where  had  they 
gone?  Would  they  come  back? 

Bound  and  helpless  as  he  was,  and  menaced  by  what  form 
of  danger  he  knew  not.  his  heart  still  beat  regularly,  his  head 
was  cool,  his  brain  clear. 

"  They  dare  not  kill  me,"  he  thought,  "  for  they  can't  bury 
me  handily,  and  are  too  far  from  the  river.  They'd  have  to 
leave  my  body  here  and  decamp,  and  they're  too  shrewd  thus 
to  fasten  the  crime  upon  themselves.  I  wish  I  knew  their 
plans." 

By  and  by,  as  the  silence  continued,  he  began  to  struggle ; 
not  with  his  bonds,  for  he  knew  that  to  be  useless,  but  in  an 
eifort  to  propel  himself  about  the  room. 

Slowly,  with  cautious  feeling  of  his  way,  by  bringing  his 
head  or  feet  first  into  contact  with  the  new  space  to  be  ex- 
plored, he  made  the  circuit  of  the  room ;  rolling  from  side  to 
side  across  the  dusty  floor,  bringing  himself  up  sharply  against 
the  walls  on  either  side,  in  the  hope  of  finding  anything — a 
hook,  a  nail,  a  projecting  bit  of  wood — against  which  he  might 
rub  his  head,  hoping  thus  to  remove  the  bandage  from  his 
eyes,  perhaps  the  gag  froirt  his  mouth. 

But  his  efforts  were  without  reward.  The  room  was  bare. 
Not  a  box,  not  a  bit  of  wood,  not  a  projecting  hook  or  nail ; 
only  a  few  scattering  rags  which,  as  he  rolled  among  them, 
baptized  him  with  a  cloud  of  dust  and  reminded  him,  by  their 


232  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

offensive  odor,  of  the  foul  cellar  in  Papa  Francoise's  deserted 
K —  street  abode. 

» 

There  was  nothing  in  the  room  to  help  him.  It  was  use- 
less to  try  to  liberate  himself.  And  he  lay  supine  once  more, 
cursing  the  Fate  that  had  led  him  into  such  a  trap;  and  curs- 
ing more  than  all  the  officious,  presumptuous  meddler,  the  jail- 
bird and  ruffian,  who  had  thus  entrapped  him,  Van  Vernet. 

"  If  I  escape/'  he  assured  himself,  "and  I  will  escape,  I'll 
hunt  that  man  down !  I'll  put  him  behind  the  bars  again  if,  to 
do  it,  I  have  to  renounce  the  prospect  of  a  double  fortune ! 
But  I  won't  renounce  it,"  thought  this  hopeful  prisoner. 
"  When  I  find  them  again,  and  I  will  find  them,  I'll  first  cap- 
ture this  convict  son,  and  then  use  him  to  extort  the  truth 
from  those  old  pirates — the  truth  concerning  their  con- 
nection with  Alan  Warburton,  aristocrat.  And  when  I 
have  that  truth,  the  high  and  mighty  Warburton  will  learn 
what  it  costs  him  to  send  a  black  servant  to  dictate  to  Van 
Vernet!" 

Easily  conceived,  this  pretty  scheme  for  the  future,  but  its 
execution  depends  upon  the  liberation  of  Van  Vernet  and, 
just  now,  that  seems  an  improbable  thing. 

Moments  pass  away.  They  seem  like  hours  to  the  helpless 
prisoner;  .they  have  fitted  themselves  into  one  long  hour  be- 
fore the  silence  is  broken. 

Then  he  hears,  for  all  his  shut-up  faculties  seemed  to  have 
merged  themselves  into  hearing,  a  slight,  a  very  slight  sound 
in  the  outer  room.  The  door  has  opened ,  some  one  is  enter- 
ing. More  muffled  sounds,  and  Vernet  knows  that  some  one 
is  creeping  toward  the  inner  room.  Slowly,  with  the  least 
possible  noise,  that  door  also  opens.  He  hears  low  whisper- 
ing, and  then  realizes  that  two  persons  approach  him.  Are 


FLAMES.  233 

they  foes  or  friends?     Oh,  for  the  use  of  his  eyes — for  the 
power  to  .speak ! 

Presently  hands  touch  him.  Ah,  they  are  about  to  liberate 
him;  but  why  so  silent? 

They  are  dexterous,  swift-moving  hands;  but  his  fetters  re- 
main, while  the  swift  hands  work  on. 

They  are  robbing  him.  First  his  watch;  his  pocket-book 
next;  then  shirt  studs,  sleeve  buttons,  even  his  handkerchief. 

And  still  no  word  is  spoken. 

He  writhes  in  impotent  anger.  His  brain  seems  seized 
with  a  sudden  madness.  These  swift,  despoiling  hands,  the 
darkness,  the  horrible  silence,  appall  him — fill  him  with  a  sort 
of  supernatural  terror. 

The  hands  have  ceased  their  search,  and  he  knows  that  the 
two  robbers  have  risen.  He  feels  the  near  presence  of  one; 
the  footsteps  of  the  other  go  from  him,  toward  the  street. 

A  scraping  sound  ;  a  soft  rustle.  They  are  gathering  up 
the  rags  from  the  floor.  The  closet  again:  this  time  it  is 
opened,  entered.  A  moment's  stillness ;  then  a  sharp  sound, 
which  he  knows  to  be  the  striking  of  a  match.  Another  long 
silent  moment.  What  are  they  doing  ? 

Ah  !  the  footsteps  retreat.  They  go  toward  the  outer  room ; 
creeping,  creeping  stealthily. 

Now  they  have  crossed  the  outer  room.  They  go  out,  and 
the  door  is  softly  closed. 

What  does  this  mystery  mean?  Have  they  returned  to  rob 
him,  and  then  to  leave  him?  Will  they  come  back  yet  again  ? 

A  moment  passes ;  another,  and  another.  Then  a  sicken- 
ing odor  penetrates  to  his  nostrils,  like  the  burning  of  some 
foul-smelling  thing. 

Crackle,  crackle,  crackle! 


234  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Ah!  he  comprehends  now!  The  fiends  have  fired  the 
closet !  They  have  left  him  there  to  perish  in  the  flames — 
the  hungry  flames  that  will  wipe  out  all  traces  of  their  guilt! 

Oh,  the  unutterable  horror  that  sweeps  over  him!  To  die 
thus:  fettered,  blinded,  powerless  to  cry  for  aid!  A  frenzied 
madness  courses  through  his  veins. 

Crackle,  hiss,  roar! 

The  flames  rise  and  spread.  The  door"  of  the  closet  has 
fallen  in,  and  now  he  feels  their  hot  breath.  They  are  closing 
around  him;  he  is  suffocating.  He  tugs  at  his  fetters  with 
the  strength  of  despair.  All  is  in  vain. 

Hiss!  hiss!  hiss! 

His  brain  reels.  He  is  falling,  falling,  falling.  There  is 
a  horrible  sound  in  his  ears;  his  eyes  see  hideous  visions;  his 
breath  is  strangled;  he  shudders  convulsively,  and  resigns  his 
hold  upon  life! 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"A  BRAND    FROM    THE  BURNING." 

There  is  a  cry  of  alarm  in  the  street  below.  The  fire  has 
broken  through  the  roof,  and  so  revealed  itself  to  some  late 
passer-by. 

"Fire!  fire!  fire!" 

Soon  the  space  before  the  doomed  building  is  swarming 
with  people  running,  vociferating,  cursing,  jesting.  Drunken 
men  are  there,  haggard  women,  dirty,  ragged  children,  who 
clap  their  hands  and  shout  excitedly  at  this  splendid  spectacle. 

It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  save  the   old  tenement;  they 


"The  flames  rise  and  spread ;  the  door  of  the  closet  has  fallen  in,  and 
now  he  feels  their  hot  breath." — page  284. 

235 


236  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

realize  that.  But  its  occupants — They  have  heard  the 
alarm,  aud  they  come  out  hurriedly,  en  deshabille,  pushing 
and  dragging  the  children,  screaming,  and  cursing  each  other 
and  the  world. 

All  on  the  lower  floor  are  then  safe.  But  the  upper  floor, 
and  its  occupants? 

"Fire!  fire!  fire!" 

No  signs  of  life  above  stairs.  No  terrified  faces  at  the 
windows.  No  flying  forms  down  the  rickety  stairway.  No 
cries  for  help  from  among  the  fast-spreading  flames. 

"Fire!  fire!  fire!" 

They  hear  the  tinkle  of  bells,  the  gallop  of  speeding  hoofs 
upon  the  pavement. 

"Ah  !"  cries  an  on-looker,  "the  fire  boys  are  coming!" 

"Too  late,  they  are,"  growls  another;  "too  late,  as  usual." 

The  engine  approaches;  and  from  the  opposite  direction 
comes  a  man,  running  swiftly,  panting  heavily,  almost  breath- 
less. 

The  roof  is  all  ablaze  now ;  in  a  moment  the  rafters  will 
have  fallen  in. 

The  panting  new-comer  stops  suddenly  before  the  door  of 
the  burning  tenement,  and  glances  sharply  about.  Near  him' 
is  a  half-dazed  women  who  has  rushed  to  the  rescue,  as  fright- 
ened women  will,  with  a  pail  of  water  in  her  unsteady  hand. 
The  man  leaps  toward  her,  seizes  the  pail,  dashes  its  contents 
over  his  head  and  shoulders,  and  plunging  through  the  door- 
way, disappears  up  the  stairs. 

"Stop!  Comeback!" 

"What  a  fool!" 

"That's  the  end  of  Aim/" 

The  on-lookers  shout  and  scream.     Exclamations,  remou- 


"A  BRAND  FROM  THE  BURNING." 

strance,  pity,  ridicule — all  find  voice,  and  are  all  lost  upon  the 
daring  adventurer  among  the  flames. 

The  engine  rushes  up ;  the  firemen  spring  to  their  work : 
useless  effort.  Nobody  thinks  of  them,  or  what  they  do;  all 
eyes  are  on  the  blazing  upper  story,  all  thoughts  for  the  man 
who  is  braving  the  flames. 

A  crash  from  aloft;  a  cry  from  the  multitude.  The  roof  is 
falling  in,  and  the  gallant  rescuer — ah!  he  is  doomed. 

But  no;  a  form  comes  reeling  out  from  among  the  smoke 
and  fire  tongues,  comes  staggering  and  swaying  beneath  a 
burden  which  is  almost  too  much  for  his  strength. 

Then  a  triumphant  yell  rises  from  the  multitude.  They 
seize  upon  rescued  and  rescuer,  and  bear  them  away  from  the 
heat  and  danger.  How  they  scream  and  crowd ;  how  (hey 
elbow  and  curse;  how  they  exclaim,  as  they  bend  over  these 
two  refugees  from  a  fiery  death ! 

The  rescuer  has  sunk  upon  the  ground,  half  suffocated  and 
almost  insensible ;  but  all  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  rescued,  for 
he  is  bound,  gagged  and  blindfolded  ! 

What  is  he?  Who  is  he?  Why  is  he  thus?  They  are 
filled  with  curiosity ;  here  is  a  mystery  to  solve.  For  the 
moment  the  gallant  rescuer  is  forgotten,  or  only  remembered 
as  they  seek  to  avoid  trampling  upon  him  in  their  eagerness 
to  obtain  a  view  of  the  greater  curiosity. 

They  tear  off  the  fetters  of  the  late  prisoner.  They  wrest 
the  bandage  from  his  eyes.  They  remove  the  gag  from  his 
mouth.  Then  curiosity  receives  a  fresh  stimulus;  exclama- 
tions break  out  anew. 

"  It's  a  nigger !" 

"  No ;  look  here  !" 

"  Hello,  he's  been  playin'  moke !" 


238  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"He's  been  blacked!' 

"  Look  at  his  clothes,  boys." 

"  Jerusalem  !  he's  been  robbed." 

Then  they  begin  their  efforts  to  bring  him  to  his  senses ; 
partly  for  humanity's  sake,  quite  as  much  that  they  may 
gratify  their  curiosity. 

"  He's  dead,  I  reckon." 

"  No ;  only  smothered." 

"  Stand  back  there ;  give  us  air." 

"Let's  have  some  water." 

"No,  brandy." 

"  Look  ;  he's  coming  to." 

He  is  "coming  to".  He  shudders  convulsively,  gropes 
about  with  his  hands  and  feebly  raises  his  head.  Then  res- 
piration becomes  freer ;  he  draws  in  a  deep  breath,  sits  up  and 
looks  about  him.  He  is  bewildered  at  first ;  then  memory 
reasserts  herself.  He  sees  the  now  almost-demolished  tene- 
ment, the  crowd  of  eager  faces,  and  notes  the  fact  that  he  is 
free,  unfettered.  He  rises  to  his  feet,  and  unmindful  of  the 
questions  eagerly  poured  upon  him,  gazes  slowly  about  him. 

At  last  two  or  three  policemen  have  appeared  upon  the 
scene.  He  shakes  himself  loose  from  the  people  about  him, 
and  strides  toward  one  of  these  functionaries  ;  Van  Vernet  is 
himself  again. 

The  eyes  of  the  crowd  follow  his  movements  in  amazement. 
They  see  him  speak  a  few  words  in  the  ear  of  one  of  the 
officers ;  see  that  worthy  beckon  to  a  second,  and  whisper  to 
him  in  turn.  And  then,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  officer 
number  one,  and  following  in  the  wake  of  officer  number  two, 
who  clears  the  way  with  authorative  waves  of  his  magic  club, 
he  passes  them  by  without  a  word  or  glance,  and  soon;  with 


"  A  form  comes  reeling  out  from  among  the  smoke  and  fire-tongues, 
Staggering  beneath  a  burden."— page  237. 

239 


240  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

his  double  escort,  is  lost  in  the  darkness,  leaving  the  throng 
baffled,  dissatisfied  "and,  more  than  all,  astounded. 

"  And  he  never  stops  to  ask  who  saved  him !"  cries  a  woman's 
shrill  voice. 

"Oh,  the  wretch!" 

""What  shameful  ingratitude!" 

And  now  their  thoughts  return  to  the  rescuer,  the  gallant 
fellow  who  has  risked  his  life  to  save  an  ingrate. 

But  he,  too,  is  gone.  In  the  moment  when  their  eyes  and 
their  thoughts  were  following  Veruet,  he  has  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

IN  THE   CONSERVATORY. 

Several  days  have  passed  since  the  visit  of  Mamma  Fran- 
coise  to  the  "Warburton  mansion,  with  all  its  attendant  circum- 
stances; since  the  flight  from  the  Francoise  tenement,  and  Van 
Vernet's  rescue  from  a  fiery  death. 

The  Warburton  Mansion  is  closed  and  gloomy.  The 
splendid  drawing-rooms  are  darkened  and  tenantless.  The 
music-room  is  silent  and  shut  from  any  ray  of  light.  The 
library,  where  a  dull  fire  glows  in  the  grate,  looks  stately  and 
somber.  Only  in  the  omsiTvutory — where  the  flowers  bloom 
and  send  out  breaths  of  fragrance,  and  where  the  birds  chirp 
and  carol  as  if  there  were  no  sorrow  nor  death  in  the  world — 
is  there  any  light  and  look  of  cheer. 

Yesterday,  the  stately  doors  opened  for  the  last  exit  of  the 
master  of  all  that  splendor.  He  went  out  in  state,  and  was 


IN  THE  CONSERVATORY.  241 

followed  by  an  imposing  cortege.  There  was  all  the  solemn 
pomp,  all  the  grandeur  of  an  aristocratic  funeral.  But  when 
it  was  over,  what  was  Archibald  "Warburton  more  than  the 
poorest  pauper  who  dies  in  a  hospital  and  is  buried  by  the 
coroner? 

To-day  the  doors  are  closed,  the  house  is  silent.  The  ser- 
vants go  about  with  solemn  faces  and  hushed  voices.  Alan 
AVarburton  has  kept  his  own  room  since  early  morning,  and 
Leslie  has  been  visible  only  to  her  maid  and  to  Winnie 
French. 

She  is  alone  in  her  dressing-room,  at  this  moment,  standing 
erect  before  the  daintily-tiled  fire-place,  a  look  of  hopeless 
despair  upon  her  countenance. 

A  moment  since,  she  was  sitting  before  the  fire,  so  sad,  so 

« 

weary,  that  it  seemed  to  her  that  death  had  left  the  taint  of 
his  presence  over  everything.  Now,  that  which  she  held  in 
her  hand  had  brought  her  back  to  life,  and  face  to  face  with 
her  future,  with  fearful  suddenness. 

It  was  a  note  coarsely  written  and  odorous  of  tobacco,  and 
it  contained  these  words: 

We  have  waited  for  you  five  days.  If  you  do  not  come  to  us  before 
two  more,  they  shall  know  at  police  headquarters  that  you  can  tell  them 
who  killed  Josef  Siebel.  You  see  we  have  changed  our  residence. 

Then  followed  the  street  and  number  of  the  Francoises'  new 
abode.  There  was  no  date,  no  address,  no  signature.  But 
Leslie  knew  too  well  all  that  it  did  not  say;  comprehended  to 
the  full  its  hidden  meaning. 

She  had  not  anticipated  this  blow;  had  never  dreamed  that 
they  would  dare  so  much.  Standing  there,  with  her  lips  com- 
pressed and  her  fingers  clutching  the  dirty  bit  of  paper,  she 
looked  the  future  full  in  the  face. 

16  *11 


242  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

•Stanhope  had  bidden  her  ignore  their  commands  and  fear 
nothing.  But  then  he  never  could  have  anticipated  this.  If 
she  could  see  him ;  could  consult  him  once  again.  But  that 
was  impossible;  he  had  told  her  so. 

For  many  moments  she  stood  moveless  and  silent,  her  brow 
contracted,  the  desperate  look  in  her  eyes  growing  deeper,  her 
lips  compressing  themselves  into  fixed  firm  lines. 

Then  she  thrust  the  note  into  her  pocket,  and  turned  from 
the  grate. 

"  It  is  the  last  straw!"  she  muttered,  in  a  low  monotone. 
"But  there  shall  be  no  more  hesitation;  we  have  had  enough 
of  that.  They  may  do  their  worst  now,  and — "  she  shut  her 
teeth  with  a  sharp  sound — "  and  I  will  frustrate  them,  at  the 
cost  of  m£  honor  or  my  life!" 

There  was  no  timidity,  no  tremor  of  hesitation  in  her  move- 
ments, as  she  crossed  the  room  and  opened  the  door.  Her 
hand  was  firm,  her  step  steady,  her  face  as  fixed  as  marble; 
but  it  looked,  in  its  white  immobility,  like  a  face  that  was  dead. 

She  crossed  the  hall  and  entered  the  chamber  occupied  by 
her  friend.  A  maid  was  there,  engaged  in  sewing. 

Miss  French  had  just  left  the  room,  she  said.  Miss  French 
felt  oppressed  by  the  loneliness  and  gloom.  She  had  gone  be- 
low, probably  to  the  conservatory. 

Winnie  was  in  the  conservatory,  holding  a  book  in  one  list- 
less hand,  idly  fingering  a  trailing  vine  with  the  other.  Her 
eyes,  usually  so  merry  and  sparkling,  were  tear-dimmed  and 
fixed  on  vacancy.  Her  pretty  face  was  unnaturally  woeful; 
her  piquant  mouth,  sad  and  drooping. 

She  sprang  up,  however,  with  a  quick  exclamation,  wnen 
Leslie's  hand  parted  the  clustering  vines,  and  Leslie's  self 
glided  in  among  the  exotics,. 


IN  THE  CONSERVATORY.  243 

"  Sit  where  you  are,  Winnie/'  said  Leslie,  in  a  voice  which 
struck  her  listener  as  strangely  chill  and  monotonous.  "Let 
me  sit  beside  you.  It's  not  quite  so  dreary  here,  and  I've 
something  to  say  to  you?' 

Casting  a  look  of  startled  inquiry  upon  her,  Winnie  re- 
sumed her  seat  among  the  flowery  vines,  and  Leslie  sank  down 
beside  her,  resuming,  as  she  did  so,  and  in  the  same  even,  icy 
tone : 

"  Dear,  I  want  you  to  promise  me,  first  of  all,  to  keep  what 
I  am  about  to  say  a  secret." 

Winnie  lifted  two  inquiring  eyes  to  the  face  of  her  friend, 
"but  said  no  word. 

"  I  know,  Winnie,  that  you  have  ever  been  my  truest,  dear- 
est friend,"  pursued  Leslie.  "  But  now — ah !  I  must  put  your 
friendship  to  a  new,  strange  test.  I  feel  as  if  my  secret  would 
be  less  a  burden  if  shared  by  a  true  friend,  and  you  are  that 
friend.  Winnie,  I  have  a  sad,  sad  secret." 

The  young  girl  turned  her  face  slowly  away  from  Leslie's 
gaze,  and  when  it  was  completely  hidden  among  the  leaves 
and  blossoms,  she  breathed,  in  a  scarcely  audible  whisper: 

"I  know  it,  Leslie;  I  guessed." 

"What!"  queried  Leslie,  a  look  of  sad  surprise  crossing 
her  face,  "you,  too,  have  guessed  it?  And  I  thought  it  so 
closely  hidden!  Oh,"  with  a  sudden  burst  of  passion,  "did 
my  husband  suspect  it,  too,  then?" 

"No,  dear,"  replied  Winnie,  turning  her  face  toward  Leslie 
but  keeping  her  eyes  averted;  "no,  I  do  not  believe  that 
Archibald  guessed.  He  was  too  true  and  frank  himself  to 
suspect  any  form  of  falsity  in  another." 

"  Falsity  /"  Leslie  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  her  face  fairly 
livid, 


244  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Winnie  also  arose,  and  seizing  one  of  Leslie's  hands  began,  in 
a  broken  voice: 

"Leslie,  forgive  the  word!  Oh,  from  the  very  first,  I  have 
known  your  secret,  and  pitied  you.  I  knew  it  because — be- 
cause I,  too,  am  a  woman,  and  can  read  a  woman's  heart. 
But  Archibald  never  guessed  it,  and  Alan — " 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  wringing  her  hands  as  if  tortured 
by  her  own  words. 

But  Leslie  coldly  completed  the  sentence.  "Alan!  He 
knows  it?" 

"Oh,  yes.  It  began  by  his  .doubting  your  love  for  his 
brother,  and.  then — the  knowledge — that  you  cared — for 
him—" 

Across  Leslie's  pallid  face  the  red  blood  came  surging,  and 
a  bitter  cry  broke  from  her  lips;  a  cry  that  bore  with  it  all 
her  constrained  calmness. 

"  That  I  cared  I"  she  repeated  wildly.  "  Winnifred  French, 
what  are  you  saying!  God  of  Heaven!  is  that  madness 
known,  too?" 

She  flung  herself  upon  the  divan,  her  form  shaken  by  a 
passion  of  voiceless  sobs. 

"Oh,  Leslie,  don't !"  cried  Winnie,  flinging  herself  down  be- 
side her  friend.  "  We  cannot  always  control  our  hearts  ;  -md 
indeed,  dear,  /  do  not  blame  you  for  loving  him.  Leslie," 
lowering  her  voice  softly,  "it  is  no  sin  for  you  to  love  him, 
now." 

"Xo  sin!"  Leslie's  voice  was  regaining  its  calmness,  but 
not  its  icy  tone.  "Winnie,  you  can  say  that?  Ah  !  a  woman 
can  read  a  woman's  heart,  and  I  have  read  yours:  you  love 
Alan  Warburton." 

"I?  no,  no!" 


IN  THE  CONSERVATORY.  246 

"I  say  yes;  and  but  for  your  Quixotic  notions  of  loyalty 
and  friendship,  you  would  be  his  promised  wife  to-day. 
Winnie,  listen ;  having  begun  another  confession  I  will  make 
my  confidence  entire.  I  never  dreamed  that  you  or — or  Alan, 
guessed  my  horrible  folly.  I  did  not  come  to  intrust  to  your 
keeping  that  dead  secret.  You  tell  me  that  it  is  no  sin  to  love 
Alan  now.  Winnie,  the  greatest  sin  of  my  life  has  been  that 
I  promised  to  marry  Archibald  Warburton  without  loving 
him.  But,  at  least,  I  was  heart-free  then ;  I  cared  for  no 
other.  We  were  betrothed  three  months  before  Alan  came 
home,  and  I — .  But  let  that  pass;  it  is  the  crowning-point 
of  my  humiliation.  I  did  love  Alan  Warburton.  If  I  loved 
him  still,  I  could  not  say  this  so  calmly.  Winnie,  believe  me; 
that  madness  is  over.  To-day  Alan  Warburton  is  to  me — my 
husband's  brother,  nothing  more;  just  as  I  am  nothing,  in  his 
eyes,  save  a  woman  who  wears  with  ill  grace  the  proud  name 
of  Warburton.  This  may  seem  strange  to  you.  It  will  not 
appear  so  strange  when  you  hear  what  I  am  about  to  tell. 
Alan  Warburton's  egotism  has  cured  me  effectually.  I  am 
free  from  that  folly,  thank  Heaven,  but  I  shall  never  cease  to 
hate  myself  for  it.  And  my  humiliation  is  now  complete, 
since  you  tell  me  that  Alan  knew  of  my  madness.  But, 
Winnie,  this  is  not  what  I  came  to  tell  you.  I  have  another 
secret,  dear,  but  this  one  is  not  like  the  other,  a  sin  of  my  own 
making.  It  is  a  story  of  the  craftiness  of  others,  and  of  my 
weakness — yes,  wickedness." 

"  Hush,  Leslie,"  said  Winnie  impetuously,  "  I  won't  hear 
you  talk  of  wickedness.  I  am  glad  you  no  longer  care  for 
Alan;  and  as  for  me,  I  just  hate  him;  the  detestable,  stiff- 
necked — pshaw,  don't  talk  as  if  you  had  wronged  Mm!" 

There  is  a  movement  of  the  heavy  curtains  that  separate 


246  DANGEROT7S  GROUND. 

this  bower  from  the  library.  Some  one  is  approaching,  but 
Leslie,  unaware  of  this  near  presence,  answers  sadly : 

"Ah,  Winnie,  you  don't  know  all.  I  have  dared  to  unite 
myself  to  the  haughty  house  of  Warburton  ;  to  take  upon  my- 
self a  name  old,  honored  and  unsullied,  and  to  drag  that 
name — " 

A  sound  close  at  hand  causes  them  both  to  start.  They  lift 
their  eyes  to  see,  pale  and  erect  among  the  roses  and  lilies  and 
trailing  vines,  wearing  upon  his  handsome  face  a  look  of 
mingled  sadness  and  scorn — Alan  Warburton. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

FLINT  TO  STEEL. 

There  was  a  long  moment  of  silence,  and  then  Alan  War- 
burton  spoke. 

"  Much  as  I  desire  to  hear  that  sentence  completed,  Mrs. 
Wnrlmrton,  I  could  do  no  less  than  interrupt." 

Leslie  dropped  Winnie's  hand  and  rose  slowly,  moving  with 
a  stately  grace  toward  the  entrance  before  which  Alan  stood. 
And  Winnie,  with  a  wrathful  glance  at  the  intruder,  flung 
aside  a  handful  of  loose  leaves  with  an  impatient  motion,  and 
followed  her  friend. 

But  Alan,  making  no  effort  to  conceal  his  hostile  feelings, 
still  stood  before  the  entrance,  and  again  addressed  Leslie. 

"May  I  detain  you  for  a  moment,  Mrs.  Warburton?" 

Leslie  paused  before  him  with  a  face  as  haughty  as  his  own, 


FLINT  TO  STEEL.  24? 

and  bowed  her  assent.  Then  she  drew  back  and  looked  at 
Winnie,  who,  with  a  gesture  meant  to  be  imperious,  commanded 
Alan  to  stand  aside. 

"  Will  you  remain,  Miss  French?"  asked  Alan,  but  moving 
aside  with  a  courtly  bow. 

"No;  I  won't,"  retorted  the  irate  little  lady.  "I  don't 
like  the  change  of  climate.  I'm  going  up  stairs  for  my  furs 
and  a  foot-warmer — ugh  !" 

And  casting  upon  him  a  final  glance  of  scorn,  she  dashed 
aside  the  curtains,  and  they  heard  the  door  of  the  library  close 
sharply  behind  her. 

For  a  moment  they  regarded  each  other  silently.  Since 
the  night  of  that  fateful  masquerade  they  had  not  exchanged 
words,  except  such  commonpla'ces  as  were  made  necessary  by 
the  presence  of  a  third  person.  Now  they  were  both  prepared 
for  a  final  reckoning:  he  with  stern  resolve  stamped  upon 
every  feature ;  she  with  desperate  defiance  in  look  and  man- 
ner. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  with  a  movement  toward  the  portierie, 
"  that  our  conversation  haa  better  be  continued  there." 

He  bowed  a  stately  assent,  and  held  back  the  curtains  while 
she  passed  into  the  library. 

She  crossed  the  room  with  slow,  graceful  movements,  and 
pausing  before  the  hearth,  turned  her  face  toward  him. 

Feeling  to  her  heart's  core  the  humiliation  brought  by  the 
knowledge  that  this  man,  her  accuser,  had  fathomed  the  secret 
of  her  past  love  for  him;  with  the  thought  of  the  Francoises' 
threat  ever  before  her — Leslie  Warburton  stood  there  hopeless, 
desolate,  desperate.  She  had  ceased  to  struggle  with  her  fate. 
She  had  resolved  to  meet  the  worst,  and  to  brave  it.  She  was 
the  woman  without  hope,  but  she  was  every  inch  a  queen,  her 


248  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

head  haughtily  poised,  her  face  once  more  frozen  into  pallid 
tranquility. 

Standing  thus,  she  was  calm,  believing  that  she  had  drained 
her  bitter  cup  to  its  very  dregs;  that  Fate  could  have  no  more 
poisoned  arrows  in  store  for  her. 

Ah,  if  she  had  known  that  her  bitterest  draught  was  yet  to 
be  quaffed;  that  the  deadliest  wound  was  yet  to  be  inflicted! 
She  made  no  effort  to  break  the  silence  that  fell  between 
them;  she  would  not  aid  him  by  a  word. 

Comprehending  this,  after  a  moment  of  waiting,  he  said: 
"  Madam,  believe  me,  I  have  no  desire  to  do  you  an  in- 
justice. I  have  purposely  avoided  this  interview,  wishing, 
while  my  dead  brother  remained  among  us,  to  spare  you  for 
his  sake.  Now,  however,  it  is  my  duty  to  fathom  the  mystery 
in  which  you  have  chosen  to  envelop  yourself.  What  have 
you  to  say  ?" 

"That,  knowing  his  duty  so  well,  Mr.  Alan  Warburton  will 
do  it,  undoubtedly."     And  she  bowed  with  ironical  courtesy. 
"And  you  still  persist  in  your  refusal  to  explain?" 
"  On  the  'contrary,  I  am  quite  at  your  service." 
She  smiled  as  she  said  these  words.     At  least  she  could  hum- 
ble the  pride  of  this  superior  being,  and  she  would  have  this 
small  morsel  of  revenge.     Her  answer  astonished  him.     His 
surprise  was  manifest.     And  she   favored  lii::i  with  a  frosty 
smile  as  she  asked  : 

"  What  is  it  that  my  brother-in-law  desires  to  know  ?" 
"The  truth,"  he  replied  sternly.     "What  took  you  to  that 
vile  den  on  the  night  of  your  masquerade?     Are  those  Fran- 
coises the  people  you  have  so  frequently  visited  by  stealth  ? 
Are  they  your  clandestine  correspondents?" 

"Your  questions  come  too  fast,"  she  retorted  calmly.     "I 


FLINT  TO  STEEL.  240 

will  reverse  the  order  of  my  answers.  The  Francoises  are 
my  clandestine  correspondents.  My  visits  by  stealth,  have  all 
been  paid  to  them.  It  was  a  threat  that  took  me  there  that 
eventful  night." 

"A  threat?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  are  in  their  power?" 

"  I  was." 

"And  their  sway  has  ceased?" 

"  It  has  ceased." 

"Since  when?" 

"  Since  the  receipt  of  this." 

She  took  from  her  pocket  the  crumpled  note,  and  held  it 
out  to  him. 

He  read  it  with  his  face  blanching. 

"  Then  it  was  you /"  he  gasped,  with  a  recoil  of  horror. 

"  It  was  a  blow  in  my  defence/'  she  said,  with  a  glance  full 
of  meaning.  "  It  would  not  become  me  to  save  myself  at  the 
expense  of  the  one  who  dealt  it." 

His  eyes  flashed,  but  she  looked  at  him  steadily.  "  Do  you 
know  who  struck  that  blow?"  he  asked. 

"To  tell  you  would  not  add  to  your  store  of  knowledge," 
she  retorted.  "  Have  you  more  to  say,  Mr.  Warburton  ?" 

"More?  yes.  Who  are  these  Francoises?  What  are  they 
to  you  ?" 

Her  answer  came  with  slow  deliberation.  "They  call  them- 
selves my  father  and  mother." 

"My  God!" 

"  It  is  true.  I  was  adopted  by  the  Ulimans.  My  husband 
and  Mr.  Follingsbee  were  aware  of  this.  It  seems  that  I  was 
given  to  the  Ulimans  by  these  people." 


250  DANGEROUS 

She  had  aimed  this  blow  at  his  pride,  but  that  pride  was 
swallowed  up  by  his  consternation.  As  she  watched  his 
countenance,  the  surprise  changed  to  incredulity,  the  incredulity 
to  contempt.  Then  he  said,  dryly  : 

"  Your  story  is  excellent,  but  too  improbable.  Will  you 
answer  a  few  more  questions?" 

"Ask  them." 

"On  the  night  of  the  masquerade  you  received  here,  in  your 
husband's  house,  by  appointment,  a  man  disguised  in  woman's 
apparel." 

"Well?" 

"You  admit  it?  Do  you  know  how  I  effected  my  escape 
that  night?" 

"I  do.     A  brave  man  came  to  your  rescue," 

"Precisely;  and  this  ' brave  man',  is  the  same  who  was 
present  at  the  masquerade ;  is  it  not  so  ?" 

"It  is." 

"Who  is  this  man?" 

"  I  decline  to  answer." 

"  What  is  he  to  you,  then  ?" 

"What  he  is  to  all  who  know  him:  a  brave,  true  man;  a 
gentleman." 

"Hem!  You  have  an  exalted  opinion  of  this — this  gen- 
tleman" 

"  And  so  should  you  have,  since  he  saved  your  life,  and 
what  you  value  more,  your  reputation.  And  now  listen  :  this 
same  man  has  bidden  me  tell  you,  has  bidden  me  warn  you, 
that  dangers  surround  you  on  every  hand ;  that  Van  Vernet 
has  traced  the  resemblance  between  you  and  the  Sailor  of  that 
night;  that  he  will  hunt  you  down  if  possible.  Your  safety 
depends  upon  your  success  in  baffling  his  efforts  to  identify 
you  with  that  Sailor." 


FLINT  TO  STEEL.  251 

"  Your  friend  is  very  thoughtful,"  he  sneered. 

She  turned  toward  the  door  with  an  air  of  weariness. 

"This  is  our  last  interview/' she  said  coldly;  "have  you 
more  to  say  ?" 

He  made  a  quick  stride  toward  the  door,  and  placing  him- 
self before  it,  let  his  enforced  calmness  fall  from  him  like  a 
mantle  of  snow  from  a  statue  of  fire,  with  all  his  hatred  and 
disgust  concentrated  in  the  low,  metallic  tones  in  which  he  ad- 
dressed her. 

"  I  have  only  this  to  say :  Your  plans,  which  as  yet  I  only 
half  comprehend,  will  fail  utterly.  You  fancy,  perhaps,  that 
this  snare,  into  which  I  have  fallen,  will  fetter  my  hands  and 
prevent  me  from  undoing  your  work.  I  cannot  give  life  to 
the  victim  whose  death  lies  at  your  door,  the  husband  who 
was  slain  by  your  sin,  but  I  can  rescue  your  later  victim,  if 
her  life,  too,  has  not  been  sacrificed.  As  for  these  two  wretches, 
whose  parental  claim  is  a  figment  of  your  own  imagination, 
and  this  lover,  who  is  the  abettor,  possibly  the  instigator,  of 
your  crimes,  I  shall  find  him  out — " 

"  Stop,"  she  cried  wildly,  "  I  command  you,  stop  !" 

"Ah,  that  touches  you!  I  repeat,  I  shall  find  him  out. 
To  succeed,  you  should  have  concealed  his  existence  as  eifect- 
ually  as  you  have  concealed  poor  little  Daisy." 

A  death-like  palor  overspreads  the  face  of  the  woman 
before  him.  She  stretches  out  her  arms  imploringly,  her 
form  sways  as  if  she  were  about  to  fall,  and  she  utters  a  wail- 
ing cry. 

"As  /have  concealed  Daisy?  Oh,  my  God;  my  God  !  I 
see !  I  understand !  My  weakness,  my  folly,  ha^  done  its 
work.  I  have  killed  my  husband  !  I  have  brought  a  curse 
upon  little  Daisy!  I  have  endangered  your  life  and  honor! 


252  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

/  conceal  our  Daisy?  Hear  me,  Heaven;  henceforth  I  am 
nameless,  homeless,  friendless,  until  I  have  found  Daisy  War- 
burton  and  restored  her  to  you !" 

Her  voice  died  in  a  low  wail.  She  makes  a  forward  move- 
ment, and  then  falls  headlong  at  the  feet  of  her  stern  accuser. 
For  the  second  time  in  all  her  life,  Leslie  Warburton  has 
fainted. 

One  moment  Alan  "Warburton  stands  looking  down  upon 
her,  a  cynical  half  smile  upon  his  lips.  Then  he  turns  and 
pulls  the  bell. 

"  Mrs.  Warburton  is  in  a  swoon,"  he  says  to  the  servant 
who  appeaics.  "  Call  some  one  to  her  assistance." 

And  without  once  glancing  backward,  he  strides  from  the 
library. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

ALAN  "  EVOLVES"  A  PLAN  OF  ACTION. 

Kind  hands  brought  Leslie  back  to  life,  and  to  a  new  sense 
of  pain,  for  even  the  hands  that  love  us  must  sometimes  hurt, 
when  they  hope  to  heal. 

Every  servant  of  the  household  loved  its  fair  mistress. 
And  while  those  who  could,  bustled  to  and  fro,  commanded 
by  Winnie,  each  eager  to  minister  to  so  kind  a  mistress,  and 
those  who  were  superfluous  went  about  with  anxious,  sympa- 
thetic fac^,  Alan  Warburton,  the  one  unpitying  soul  in  all 
that  household,  paced  his  -  room  restlessly,  troubled  and 
anxious — not  because  of  Leslie's  illness,  but  because  of  the 
revelation  just  received  from  her  lips. 


"I  cannot  give  life  to  the  victim  whose  death  lies  at  your  door." 

-page  251. 

253 


254  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Could  this  thing  be  true  ?  Had  his  brother  Archibald,  a 
Warburton  of  the  Warburton's — that  family  so  old,  so  proud, 
so  pure;  that  family  whose  men  had  always  been  gentlemen 
whom  the  world  had  delighted  to  honor ;  whose  women  had 
been  queens  of  society,  stately,  high-bred,  above  reproach — 
could  Archibald  Warburton  have  made  a  mesalliance?  And 
such  a  mesalliance  I  The  daughter  of  a  pair  of  street  mendi- 
cants, social  outlaws ;  an  adventuress  with  no  name,  no  lineage, 
no  heritage  save  that  of  shame. 

"  Of  all  the  notable  things  of  earth 
The  queerest.one  is  pride  of  birth." 

For  the  moment  it  outweighed  his  grief  for  Archibald,  his 
anxiety  for  Daisy,  his  very  humanity.  Later  on,  he  might  be 
Warburton  the  friend,  and  the  truest  of  friends ;  Warburton 
the  lover,  and  the  tenderest,  the  most  chivalrous  of  lovers ; 
Warburton  the  champion,  as  on  the  night  when  he  rescued 
Leslie;  but  now  he  is  only  Warburton  the  aristocrat;  the 
aristocrat,  insulted,  defied,  betrayed ;  brought  into  contact 
with  mystery,  intrigue,  base  blood,  and  in  his  own  household. 
Could  he  ever  forgive  Leslie  Warburton  ?  Would  he,  if  he 
could? 

He  had  accused  her  as  the  cause  of  his  brother's  death,  as 
the  source  of  the  mystery  which  overhung  the  fate  of  little 
Daisy;  and  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  believed  her  guilty.  And 
now,  her  daring,  her  cool  effrontery,  had  made  some  hitherto 
mysterious  movements  plain.  Her  father  and  mother,  those 
wretches  who  lived  in  a  hovel,  and  smelled  of  the  gutter ! 
But  she  had  betrayed  herself.  These  people  must  be  found  at 
whatever  hazard. 

Thus  meditating,  he  paced  up  and  down,  up  and  down. 
And  before  he  finally  ceased  his  restless  journeyings  to  and 


AT.ATST  "  EVOLVES"  A  PLAN  OF  ACTION.  255 

fro,  he  had  evolved  a  theory  and  a  plan  of  action.  A  very 
natural  theory  it  was,  and  a  very  magnanimous  plan. 

Having  first  catalogued  Leslie  as  an  adventuress,  he  en- 
dowed her,  in  his  theory,  with  all  the  attributes  of  the  ad- 
venturess of  the  orthodox  school — cunning,  crafty,  avaricious, 
scheming  for  a  fortune;  unscrupulous,  of  course,  and  only 
differing  from  the  average  adventuress  in  that  she  was  the 
cleverest  and  the  most  beautiful,  as  she  had  been  the  most 
successful  of  heii  kind. 

"  Granted  that  these  two  old  wretches  are  her  parents,"  he 
reasoned,  "the  rest  explains  itself.  They  incite  her  to  plot  for 
their  mutual  welfare.  She  marries  Archibald,  and  even  I 
discern  that  she  does  not  love  him ;  but  he  is  wealthy,  and  an 
invalid.  Only  one  thing  stands  between  her  and  an  eventual 
fortune,  and  that  is  poor  little  Daisy.  Possibly  she  may  have 
still  some  tenderness  of  heart,  and  for  a  time  Daisy  is  spared. 
But  after  a  while,  the  mysterious  goings  and  comings  begin; 
the  arrival  of  notes  by  strange  messengers ;  and  a  new  look 
dawns  upon  my  sister-in-law's  fair  face.  Then  comes  the 
masquerade.  A  man  is  here,  in  this  house,  by  appointment 
with  her.  He  follows  her  to  the  abode  of  the  Francoises  and 
so  do  I.  Who  is  this  man  ?  A  gentleman,  she  tells  me.  Her 
lover,  doubtless,  and  all  is  explained.  With  Archibald  re- 
moved, what  would  stand  between  her  lover  and  herself? 
With  Daisy  removed,  she  would  possess  both  lover  and  fortune. 
And  to  remove  Daisy  was  to  remove  Archibald.  The  shock 
would  suffice.  She  planned  all  this  deliberately;  and  on  the 
night  of  the  masquerade  the  Francoises  aided  her,  and  Daisv 
was  stolen." 

Thus  reasoned  Alan.  And  then  he  formed  his  plans.  He 
would  spare  Leslie  all  public  disgrace,  but  she  mr.et  cease  to 


256  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

call  herself  a  "Warburton  of  the  Warburtons.  She  must  give 
up  the  family  name,  and  go  away  from  the  ci.y;  far  away, 
where  no  gossiping  tongue  could  guess  at  her  lii.-tory,  or  con- 
nect her  with  the  Warburtons.  For  Daisy's  sake,  for  his 
brother's  sake,  for  the  honor  of  the  name,  she  must  go.  She 
might  take  her  fortune,  left  her  by  her  deceived  husband,  but 
she  must  go. 

"I  will  institute  a  search  for  the  Francoises,"  he  muttered. 
"  Everything  must  be  done  privately;  there  must  be  no  scandal. 
If  I  require  assistance,  I  can  trust  Follingsbee.  I  will  see 
Leslie  again,  in  the  morning.  I  will  make  terms  with  her, 
haughty  as  she  is,  and — first  of  all  she  shall  tell  me  the  truth 
concerning  Daisy." 

He  was  not  unmindful  of  his  own  peril,  not  regardless  for 
his  own  safety,  but  he  was  determined  to  know  the  truth  con- 
cerning the  disappearance  of  Daisy  Warborton,  and  if  need  be, 
to  face  the  attendant  risk. 

"I  will  write  to  the  Chief  of  Police  again,"  he  mused.  "I 
must  have  additional  help.  But  first,  before  writing,  I  will 
see  her  once  more." 

And  then  he  ceased  his  promenade  for  a  moment,  to  strike 
his  hands  together  and  stare  contemptuously  at  his  image  re- 
flected from  the  mirror  directly  before  him. 

"  Fool !"  he  muttered  half  aloud ;  "  that  letter,  that  scrawl 
which  I  gave  back  to  her  so  stupidly!  It  contained  their  ad- 
dress. It  would  tell  me  where  to  find  them,  if  I  had  it;  and 
I  will  have  it," 

In  the  anger  and  astonishment  of  the  moment,  he  had  re- 
' turned  the  threatening  note  to  Leslie,  mechanically  and  with- 
out once  glancing  at  the  directions  scrawled  at  the  foot  of  the 
sheet. 


ALAN  "EVOLVES"  A  PLAN  OF  ACTION.  257 

While  Alan  paced  and  pondered,  Leslie,  having  recovered 
from  her  swoon,  went  weakly  and  wearily  to  her  own  room, 
tenderly  escorted  by  Winnie  and  the  good-hearted,  blundering 
Millie. 

When  she  was  comfortably  established  upon  a  couch,  and 
the  too  solicitous  Millie  had  been  dismissed,  AVinnie's  indigna- 
tion burst  out  in  language  exceedingly  forcible,  and  by  no 
means  complimentary  to  Alan  Warburton. 

But  Leslie  stopped  the  flow  of  her  eloquence  by  a  nervous 
appealing  gesture. 

"Let  us  not  discuss  these  things  now,  dear;  I  think  I  have 
been  overtasked.  I  cannot  talk ;  I  must  have  quiet ;  I  must 
rest." 

And  then  Winnie— denouncing  herself  for  a  selfish,  careless 
creature  with  the  same  unsparing  bitterness  that,  a  moment 
before,  she  had  lavished  upon  Alan, — assured  herself  that  the 
curtains  produced  the  proper  degree  of  restful  shadow,  that 
the  pillows  were  comfortably  adjusted,  that  all  Leslie  could 
require  was  close  at  her  hand,  kissed  her  softly  on  either 
cheek,  and  tripped  from  the  room. 

Left  alone,  Leslie  lay  for  many  moments  moveless  and 
silent,  but  not  sleeping.  The  softly-shaded  stillness  of  the 
room  acted  upon  her  over-wrought  nerves  like  a  soothing 
spell.  She  had  passed  the  boundaries  of  uncertainty.  She 
had  writhed,  and  wept,  and  shuddered  under  the  torturing 
hands  of  Doubt  and  Fear,  Terror,  and  Surprise.  She  had 
bowed  down  before  Despair.  But  all  that  was  past;  and  now 
she  was  calm  and  tearless,  a  brave  soul  that,  having  abandoned 
Hope,  stands  face  to  face  with  its  Fate. 

After  a  time  she  moved  languidly,  and  then  lifted  herself 
slowly  from  among  the  pillows. 

17 


258  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Not  to-night,"  she  murmured,  lifting  her  hand  to  her  head 
with  a  sigh  of  weariness.  "  I  must  have  rest  first." 

But  she  did  not  return  to  her  pillows.  Instead,  she  arose 
slowly,  crossed  the  room,  and  drawing  back  the  curtains  let 
in,  in  a  glowing  flood,  the  last  brightness  of  the  afternoon  sun- 
shine. Then  seating  herself  at  a  dainty  writing-desk,  she 
penned  three  notes,  with  a  hand  that  moved  slowly  but  with 
no  unsteadiness. 

The  first  was  addressed  to  Mr.  Follingsbee;  the  second  to 
Mrs.  French,  the  mother  of  Winnie;  and  the  third  to  Winnie 
herself. 

When  the  notes  were  done,  she  still  sat  before  the  desk, 
watching  the  fading-out  of  the  golden  sunlight  with  a  far  away 
look  in  her  eyes.  She  sat  thus  until  the  last  ray  had  died  in 
the  West,  and  the  twilight  came  creeping  on  grey  and  shadowy. 

Some  one  was  knocking  at  the  drawing-room  door.  She 
arose  slowly  to  admit  the  visitor.  It  was  Alan's  valet,  with 
a  twisted  note  in  his  hand. 

Leslie  took  the  note,  and  bidding  the  servant  wait,  she  re- 
turned to  the  inner  room. 

MADAM: 

As  you  manifested  no  hesitation  in  exhibiting  to  me  the  note  received 
by  you  this  morning,  you  will,  I  trust,  not  object  to  my  giving  it  a 
second  perusal.  Please  send  it  me  by  bearer  of  this.  I  will  return  it 

promptly. 

ALAN  WARBURTON. 

This  is  what  Leslie  read,  and  when  she  had  finished,  she 
took  from  her  pocket  the  crumpled  note  of  the  Francoises. 
Over  this  she  bent  her  head  for  a  moment,  murmured  some- 
thing half  aloud,  as  if  to  impress  it  on  her  memory,  and  went 
back  to  the  dressing-room  with  the  two  papers  in  her  hand. 


ALAN  BEGINS  HIS  GAME.  259 

Going  slowly  toward  the  grate,  she  stirred  the  smouldering 
fire  until  it  sent  up  a  bright  blaze,  and  with  another  glance  at 
the  crumpled  note,  she  dropped  it  upon  the  glowing  coals,  and 
watched  it  crumble  to  ashes.  Then  she  turned  toward  the 
valet,  folding  and  twisting  his  master's  note  back  into  its 
original  shape  as  she  advanced. 

"  Return  this  to  your  master,"  she  said,  "and  tell  him  that 
the  paper  he  asks  for  has  been  destroyed." 

As  the  valet  turned  away,  she  closed  the  door  and  went  back 
to  the  grate. 

"  Alan  Warburton  has  canceled  my  debt  to  him  with  an  in- 
sult," she  murmured,  with  a  cold  smile  upon  her  lips.  "  From 
this  moment  he  has  no  part  in  my  existence." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

ALAN  BEGINS  TTTR  GAME. 

Baffled  in  this  first  attempt  to  obtain  the  desired  informa- 
tion, Alan  sets  his  lips  firmly,  and  plans  a  new  mode  of  at- 
tack. And  in  the  morning  he  made  a  second  effort. 

Going  down  to  his  lately-deserted  study,  shuddering  with 
a  little  fastidious  chill  as  he  made  his  way  across  the  darkened 
room  and  noted  the  stale  atmosphere ;  frowning,  too,  when  he 
drew  back  a  heavy  curtain  and  observed  that  there  was  dust 
upon  his  cabinets,  and  that  motes  were  swimming  in  the  streak 
of  light  that  came  through  the  parted  curtains  he  rang  his 
bell  and  sent  for  Millie. 

She  came  promptly,  courtesying  demurely,  and  seemingly 


2GO  DASGEKOUS  GEUUJS'D. 

keeping  in  her  mind  Leslie's  instructions,  "to  listen,  to  obey, 
and  to  keep  silence." 

"Millie,"  said  Alan,  with  just  a  shade  of  patronage  in  his 
tone,  "go  to  Mrs.  Warburton,  and  ask  her  if  she  will  receive 
me  for  a  few  moments  this  morning.  Tell  her  that  it  is  a 
matter  of  business." 

Millie  dropped  another  courtesy,  and  silently  departed  with 
her  message,  proudly  conscious  that  she  had,  on  this  occasion 
at  least,  deported  herself  like  a  proper  servant.  And  Alan 
returned  to  the  window,  where  the  light  streamed  in,  and  the 
motes  drifted  lazily  up  and  down  in  its  rays. 

This  study  was  situated  at  the  end  of  a  wing,  the  front 
windows  opening  upon  a  well-kept  lawn,  but  the  side  window, 
at  which  Alan  stood,  directly  overlooking  a  by -street,  quite 
narrow  and  lined  with  rows  of  shade  trees. 

For  a  few  moments  Alan  stood  looking  down  into  this 
quiet  street.  Then  with  an  impatient  movement,  he  turned 
his  gaze  inward.  It  fell  first  upon  a  tall  cabinet  which  stood 
near  the  window,  and  was  partially  lighted  up  by  it. 

Again  he  noted  the  dust  upon  its  panels  with  a  frown  of 
discontent,  and  then  he  moved  toward  it,  opening  one  of  the 
doors  with  a  sort  of  aimless  restlessness  peculiar  to  people  who 
wait  impatiently,  yet  delude  themselves  with  the  belief  that 
they  are  models  of  calm  deliberation. 

It  was  a  deep  cabinet,  richly  lined  with  embossed  velvet  of 
a  glowing  crimson  hue,  and  studded  with  hooks  and  brazen 
brackets,  which  supported  a  splendid  collection  of  arms  that 
gleamed  at  you  in  cold,  cruel,  brilliant  relief  from  their  gor- 
geous background. 

There  were  highly  polished,  elegantly  finished  modern  rifles, 
rare  pieces  of  home  and  foreign  workmanship ;  there  were 


ALAN  BEGINS  HIS  GAME,  261 

blood-thirsty  duelling  pistols ;  Damascus  blades ;  light,  jaunty 
French  foils ;  Italian  stillettoes ;  German  student-swords;  and 
a  heavy,  piratical-looking  cutlass.  In  the  midst  of  them  all, 
a  group  of  splendid  Toledo  swords,  beautiful  in  design  and 
workmanship,  were  suspended. 

As  his  eye  rested  upon  this  group,  Alan's  face  lost  its  frown 
of  annoyance  and  took  on  a  look  of  profound  sorrow,  while  a 
heavy  sigh  escaped  his  lips.  They  had  been  gifts  from  Archi- 
bald, years  before,  when  the  two  had  made  a  foreign  tour — 
Alan's  first  and  Archibald's  last — together. 

Gazing  upon  these  souvenirs,  his  mind  went  back  to  the 
old  days  of  his  student-life,  and  his  brother's  companionship. 
At  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps,  he  recalled  himself 
with  a  start,  pushed  the  door  of  the  cabinet  from  him  with  a 
hasty  movement  which  left  it  half  unclosed,  and  turned  to- 
ward Millie,  who  entered  as  demurely  as  before,  closely  fol- 
lowed by  a  footman,  who  presented  to  Alan  an  official-looking 
letter. 

Taking  the  missive  from  the  salver,  Alan  dismissed  the  man 
and  then  turned  to  the  girl. 

"Well,  Millie?" 

"Mrs.  Warburton  says,  sir,  that  she  can  not  leave  her 
room  this  morning,  but  hopes  to  be  able  to  do  so  this  after- 
noon." 

"Very  well,  Millie;" — the  frown  returning  to  his  face — 
"  you  may  go."  And  he  muttered  :  "  I  suppose  that  means 
that  she  will  condescend  to  receive  me  this  afternoon.  Well, 
I  must  bide  my  time." 

He  returned  to  the  window,  and  standing  near  it,  looked 
curiously  at  the  envelope  in  his  hand.  It  was  addressed  in 
bold,  scrawling  characters  that  were,  spite  of  their  boldness, 


262  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

almost  illegible.  Slowly  he  opened  it,  and  slowly  removed 
the  sheet  it  enclosed. 

"  What  a  wretched  scrawl !"  he  muttered.  And  then,  with 
a  glance  at  the  printed  letter-head,  "  Office  of  the  Chief  of 
Police:"  "That's  legible,  at  all  events.  It's  from — from — 
hum,  strange  that  a  man  can't  write  his  own  name — B — B — 
C —  of  course,  it's  from  the  Chief  of  Police." 

Slowly  and  laboriously,  he  deciphered  the  letter. 

A.  WARBTJRTON.  etc. 

Dear  Sir: — We  have  just  secured,  for  your  case,  a  very  valuable 
man,  Mr.  Augustus  Grip,  late  of  Scotland  Yards.  He  is  an  able  and 
most  successful  detective;  we  hope  much  from  him.  Have  already  in- 
structed him  to  extent  of  our  ability,  and  he  will  wait  upon  you  per- 
sonally this  P.  M. .  between,  say,  three  and  four  o'clock.  You  will  do 

well  to  give  Mr.  Q —  full  latitude  in  the  case. 

Very  respectfully,  etc. 

This  much  Alan  slowly  deciphered,  and  this  gave  the  key 
to  the  unreadable  signature.  It  was  from  the  Chief  of  Police, 
evidently. 

Alan  reperused  the  letter,  and  slowly  returned  it  to  its  en- 
velope. 

"This  comes  at  the  right  moment,"  he  soliloquized.  "If 
this  Grip  is  what  he  is  said  to  be,  he  may  save  me  in  more 
ways  than  one." 

And  once  more  he  summoned  a  servant,  and  gave  these  in- 
structions : 

"See  that  this  room  is  thoroughly  aired  and  set  in  order  be- 
fore three  o'clock;"  adding,  as  the  servant  was  turning  away: 
"Show  a  person  who  will  call  here  after  that  hour,  into  this 
room,  and  then  bring  me  his  name." 

In  the  arrival  of  such  a  message,  at  that  precise  moment, 
there  was,  to  Alan  Warburton,  no  occasion  for  surprise.  From 


ALAN  BEGINS  HIS  GAME.  263 

the  first  he  had  communicated  with  the  officers  of  the  law  by 
letter,  or  by  quiet  interviews  held  in  his  own  apartments. 

He  was  fully  alive  to  the  fact  that,  in  dealing  with  the 
police,  he  was  himself  in  momentary  danger.  But  having  re- 
solved, from  the  beginning,  to  make  his  own  safety  and  wel- 
fare secondary  to  that  of  little  Daisy,  he  had  been  strengthened 
and  confirmed  in  this  resolve  by  his  recent  interview  with 
Leslie.  And  now,  in  his  dogged  determination  to  find  the 
Francoises,  he  vowed  to  sacrifice,  if  need  be,  his  entire  fortune, 
and  accept  any  attendant  danger,  in  prosecuting  a  vigorous 
search  for  these  old  wretches,  and  the  missing  child. 

His  brother's  illness  and  death  had  furnished  him  with  a 
sufficient  reason  for  living  secluded,  and  for  receiving  such 
business  callers  as  he  chose  to  admit,  in  his  own  apartments. 
Only  this  morning  he  had  dispatched  a  missive  to  police  head- 
quarters, desiring  the  Chief  to  secure  the  services  of  the  best 
detectives  at  any  cost,  and  to  send  to  him  for  instructions  or 
consultation,  representing  himself  as  confined  to  the  house  by 
slight  indisposition. 

He  hated  a  falsehood,  but,  as  he  penned  this  fabrication,  he 
had  thrown  the  moral  responsibility  of  the  act  upon  the  al- 
ready heavily  burdened  shoulders  of  his  sister-in-law. 

And  now,  as  he  went  slowly  from  the  study,  he  looked  for- 
ward anxiously,  but  not  apprehensively,  to  the  two  coming 
interviews:  the  first,  with  Leslie;  the  second,  with  Mr.  Grip, 
of  Scotland  Yards. 


264  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

A  VERY  PATHETIC  MUTE. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  Warburton  servants  were  a 
thoroughly  disciplined  corps,  and  that  domestic  affairs,  above 
stairs  and  below,  usually  moved  with  mechanical  regularity, 
it  was  nearly  two  o'clock  before  Millie,  armed  with  dusters 
and  brushes,  entered  Alan's  study  to  do  battle  with  a  small 
quantity  of  slowly-accumulated  dust. 

"Ah  !"  she  exclaimed  as  she  flung  open  the  windows,  "  how 
gloomy  the  house  is!  I  s'pose  Mr.  Alan  will  set  himself  up 
as  master  now,  and  then,  Millie,  you'll  get  your  walking  papers. 
Well,  who  cares;  I  don't  like  him,  anyhow."  And  she  made 
a  vigorous  dash  at  the  fireless  grate. 

Millie  Davis  was  the  joint  protege  of  Leslie  and  Winnie,  a 
rustic  with  a  pretty  face,  and  scant  knowledge  of  the  world 
nnd  its  ways. 

Up  and  down  the  study  flitted  Millie,  dusting,  arranging, 
and  pausing  very  often  to  admire  some  costly  fabric,  or  bit  of 
vivid  color. 

Almost  the  last  article  to  come  under  her  brush  was  Alan's 
cabinet-arsenal,  and  her  feminine  curiosity  prompted  her  to 
peep  in  at  the  door,  which  Alan  had  left  ajar;  and  then  Millie 
gasped  and  stood  aghast. 

"Guns  and  pistols,  and  all  manner  of  cuttin'  and  shootin' 
things,"  she  soliloquized,  as  she  drew  back  and  prepared  to 
close  the  door  of  the  cabinet.  "Well,  it  takes  a  good  while  to 
find  some,  folks  out!"  And  then,  as  a  tuneful  sound  smote 


A  VERY  PATHETIC  MUTE.  265 

her  ears,  she  turned  swiftly  from  the  open  cabinet  to  the 
window. 

A  hand  organ  grinding  out  the  "Sweet  By-and-by",  is  a 
thing  most  of  us  fail  to  appreciate.  But  Millie  both  appre- 
ciated and  understood.  It  was  music,  familiar  music,  and 
sweet;  at  least  so  thought  Millie,  and  she  hurried  to  the  win- 
dow nearest  the  cabinet,  and  looked  out. 

"My,"  she  said,  half  aloud,  "but  that  sounds  cheerful!" 

She  leaned  over  the  window-ledge  and  looked  up  and  down 
the  quiet  side  street.  Ah,  there  he  was;  quite  near  the  win- 
dow, resting  his  organ  against  the  iron  railings,  and  playing, 
with  his  eyes  turned  toward  her.  Such  beseeching  eyes;  such 
a  good-looking,  picturesque,  sad-faced  organ-grinder! 

Catching  sight  of  Millie,  he  lifted  his  organ  quickly,  and 
without  a  break  in  the  "  Sweet  By-and-by",  came  directly 
under  the  window,  gazing  up  at  her  with  a  look  that  was  a 
wondrous  mixture  of  admiration  and  pathos.  Poor  fellow ; 
how  sorrowful,  how  distressed,  and  how  respectful,  was  his 
look  and  attitude! 

"  What  a  mournful-looking  chap  it  is!"  murmured  Millie, 
drawing  back  a  little  when  the  tune  came  to  an  end. 

As  the  organ  struck  up  a  more  cheerful  strain,  a  new 
thought  seized  her,  and  she  leaned  out  again  over  the  sill. 

"  Look  here,  my  man,"  she  began,  in  a  tone  of  gentle  re- 
monstrance, "you  shouldn't  play,  come  to  think  of  it,  quite  so 
near  the  house.  It  won't  do ;  stop^  stop."  And,  as  the  man 
stared,  hesitated,  and  then  ground  away  more  vigorously  than 
before,  she  indulged  in  a  series  of  frantic  gestures,  seeing  which 
the  organ-grinder  paused  and  stared  wonderingly.  Then,  with 
a  sudden  gleam  of  comprehension,  he  smiled  up  at  her,  touched 
a  stop  in  his  organ,  and  complacently  began  a  different  tune. 


266  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"No!  no!  no!"  cried  Millie;  "not  that;  stop!"  And 
she  shook  her  head  so  violently  that  the  little  blue  bow  atop 
of  her  brown  locks,  flew  off  and  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  minstrel, 
who,  in  obedience  to  the  movement  of  her  head  and  hand, 
stopped  his  instrument  once  more,  stooped  down,  and  picking 
up  the  blue  bow,  began  to  clamber  up  the  iron  railings,  with 
his  organ  still  strapped  to  his  side,  evidently  intent  upon  re- 
storing the  bow  in  the  most  gallant  manner. 

"My!  you  shouldn't  climb  onto  the  railings  like  that," 
remonstrated  Millie,  as  she  put  out  her  hand  to  receive  the  bit 
of  ribbon. 

But  the  minstrel,  bracing  one  knee  against  the  brick  and 
mortar,  thus  steadying  himself  and  giving  his  hands  full  play, 
began  a  series  of  pantomines  so  strange  that  Millie  involuntar- 
ily exclaimed : 

"  Why,  what  in  the  world  ails  the  man !"  And  then,  struck 
once  more  by  the  pitiful  appeal  in  his  eyes,  she  cried :  "  Look 
here,  are  you  sick?" 

Only  renewed  pantomines  from  the  minstrel. 

"  Are  you  hungry  ?"  Then,  in  a  tone  of  discouragement : 
"  What  is  he  at,  anyhow?" 

But  as  the  man's  hand  went  from  his  lips  to  his  ear,  even 
Millie's  dull  comprehension  was  awakened. 

"Gracious  goodness!"  she  exclaimed,  "he's  deaf  and  dumb." 

Faster  still  flew  the  fingers  of  the  minstrel,  sadder  and  more 
pitiful  grew  his  face,  and  Millie  watched  his  movements  with 
renewed  interest. 

"He's  talking  with  his  fingers,"  muttered  Millie.  "I 
wonder — " 

She  stopped  suddenly;  he  was  doing  something  new  in  the 
way  of  pantomine,  and  Millie  guessed  its  meaning. 


A  VERY  PATHETIC  MUTE.  267 

"  A  baby !"  she  gasped ;  "  it's  something  about  a  baby.  One, 
two,  three,  ah!  five  fingers;  five  babies,  five  years — oh,  say, 
say,  man ;  say  man !" — and  Millie's  face  was  white  with 
agitation,  and  she  barely  saved  herself  from  tumbling  out  of 
the  window,  in  the  intensity  and  eagerness  of  her  excitement  — 
"you  don't  mean — you  don't  know  anything  about  our 
Daisy — you  don't — " 

But  Millie's  breath  failed  her,  for  even  as  she  spoke,  the 
sad-eyed  organ-grinder  took  from  his  pocket  a  dirty  bit  of 
paper,  unfolded  it,  and  displayed  to  the  eager  girl  a  tiny  tress 
of  yellow  hair — just  such  a  tress  as  might  have  grown  on  little 
Daisy's  head. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "I'll  bet  that's  it!  I'll  bet,  oh,—"  And 
with  this  last  interjection,  any  such  small  stock  of  prudence  as 
Millie  may  naturally  have  possessed,  was  scattered  to  the  four 
winds. 

"Wait  here,"  she  cried,  utterly  disregarding  the  fact  that 
she  was  addressing  a  deaf  man,  but  by  a  natural  instinct  suit- 
ing her  gestures  to  her  word.  "Just  you  wait  a  minute.  I 
know  who  can  talk  finger  talk." 

In  another  moment  she  had  rushed  from  the  room,  shutting 
the  door  behind  her  with  a  sudden  emphasis  that  must  have 
been  a  surprise  to  those  stately  panels,  and  the  noiseless,  slow- 
moving  hinges  on  which  they  swung. 

Scarcely  has  Millie  turned  away  from  the  window  when 
the  man  outside,  with  two  quick  turns  of  the  neck,  has  assured 
himself  (hat  for  a  moment  at  least,  the  window  is  not  under 
the  scrutiny  of  any  passer-by.  No  sooner  has  the  study  door 
closed,  than  the  mute,  without  one  shade  of  pathos  in  look  or 
action,  grasps  the  window-sill,  swings  himself  up,  and  drops 
into  the  room,  organ  and  all. 


268  bA^GEROt'S  GROUXl). 


"So  far,  good,"  mutters  this  pathetic  mute,  undej  his  breath. 
"This  is  Alan  Warburton's  study;  not  a  doubt  of  that.  Now, 
if  I  can  continue  to  stay  in  it  until  he  comes  —  " 

He  broke  off  abruptly,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  half- 
open  cabinet  ;  moved  briskly  toward  it,  peeped  in,  and 
then,  with  a  satisfied  chuckle,  stepped  inside,  and  depositing 
his  organ  upon  the  floor  of  his  hiding-place,  drew  the  door 
shut,  softly  and  slowly. 

In  another  nloment  the  study  door  opened  quickly,  and 
there  was  a  rustle,  and  the  patter  of  light  feet,  as  Winnie 
French  crossed  the  room  rapidly,  and  leaned  out  of  the  win- 
dow. 

"Why,  Millie,"  she  said,  looking  back  over  her  shoulder, 
"there's  no  one  here." 

"Perhaps  —  '  began  Millie;  then,  catching  her  breath 
sharply,  she  too  leaned  over  the  sill. 

"Where  is  your  pathetic  mute,  Millie?" 

"  Well,  I  never!"  declared  the  girl,  still  gazing  incredulously 
up  and  down  the  street.  "He  was  here." 

Winnie  smiled  as  she  turned  from  the  window. 

"Some  one  has  imposed  upon  you,  Millie,"  she  said;  "And 
you  did  a  very  careless  thing  when  you  left  such  a  stranger  at 
an  open  window." 

And  a  certain  listener  near  by  added  to  this  exordium  a 
mental  amen. 

"  He  might  have  entered  —  "  continued  Winnie. 

"Oh,  my!" 

"  And  robbed  the  house." 

"Bless  me  ;  I  never  thought  of  that  !" 

"Try  and  be  more  thoughtful  in  future,  Millie.  Close  the 
window  and  let  us  go;  ah!" 


A  VEKY  PATHETIC  MUTE.  269 

This  last  exclamation,  uttered  in  a  tone  of  unmistakable  an- 
noyance, caused  Millie  to  turn  swiftly. 

Alan  Warburton,  having  entered  noiselessly  at  the-door  left 
ajar  by  Millie's  reckless  hand,  was  standing  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  his  well-bred  face  expressive  o£  nothing  in  particular, 
his  eyes  slightly  smiling. 

At  sight  of  him,  Millie  shrank  back,  but  Winnie  came  for- 
ward haughtily. 

"  You  are  doubtless  surprised  at  seeing  me  here,  sir,"  she 
said,  with  freezing  politeness,  bent  only  upon  screening  Millie 
and  beating  an  orderly  retreat.  "  I  came — in  search  of  Millie ; 
and,  being  here,  had  a  desire  to  take  a  view  of  Elm  street. 
You  will  pardon  the  intrusion,  I  trust."  And  she  moved  to- 
ward the  door. 

"Winnie,"  said  Alan  gently,  "you  entered  to  please  your- 
self, and  you  are  very  welcome  here.  Will  you  remain  just 
five  minutes,  to  please  me  ?" 

Winnie  frowned  visibly,  but  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
said  : 

"  I  think  I  may  spare  you  five  minutes.  You  may  go, 
Millie." 

And  Millie,  only  too  thankful  to  escape  thus,. went  with 
absurd  alacrity. 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  her, — for,  retreating  un- 
der Alan's  eye,  the  fluttered  damsel  had  remembered  to  close 
the  door  properly — Winnie  stood  very  erect  and  silent  before 
her  host,  and  waited. 

"  Winnie,"  began  Alan,  consulting  his  watch  as  he  spoke, 
"  it  is  now  almost  three  o'clock,  and  I  expect  a  visitor  soon ; 
that  is  why  I  asked  for  only  a  few  moments." 

"I  am  not  anxious  to  remain/'  observed  Winnie,  glancing 


270  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

carelessly  from  the  timepiece  in  Alan's  hand  to  a  placque  on 
the  wall  above  his  head. 

"But  I  am  most  anxious  that  you  should." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Warburton,  but  you  have  such  a  peculiar 
way  of  making  yourself  agreeable." 
.   "Winnie!" 

"Your  interviews  with  ladies  are  liable  to  such  dramatic 
endings :  I  seriously  object  to  fainting,  and  I  remained  here, 
as  you  must  know,  not  because  I  cared  to  listen  to  you,  but 
because  of  Millie's  presence.  I  think  it  took  you  half  an 
hour  to  talk  Leslie  into  a  dead  faint  yesterday,  and  as  nearly 
as  I  can  guess  at  time,  one  of  your  minutes  must  be 
gone.  You  have  just  four  minutes  in  which  to  reduce  me  to 
silence." 

"  You  are  very  bitter,  Winnie,"  he  said  sadly.  "  I  am 
bowed  down  with  grief — that  you  know.  I  am  also  burdened 
with  such  a  weight  of  trouble  as  I  pray  Heaven  you  may  never 
suffer.  Will  you  let  me  tell  you  all  the  truth;  will  you  listen 
and  judge  between  Leslie  Warburton  and  me  ?" 

She  drew  herself  very  erect,  and  turned  to  face  him  fully, 
thus  shutting  from  her  view  the  door  behind  Alan. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I  will  listen  to  nothing  from  you 
concerning  Leslie.  Without  knowing  the  cause,  I  know  you 
are  her  enemy.  If  I  ever  learn  why  you  hate  her  so,  I  will 
hear  it  from  her,  not  from  you.  Leslie  is  not  a  child ;  and 
you  must  have  said  bitterly  cruel  words  before  you  left  her  in 
a  dead  faint  on  that  library  floor  last  night  — " 

A  very  distinct  cough  interrupted  her  speech,  and  they  both 
turned,  to  meet  the  respectful  gaze  of  a  jaunty-looking  stranger, 
who  said,  as  he  advanced  into  the  room : 

"  Pardon  me ;  the  servant  showed  me  in  somewhat  uncere- 


ME.  GRIP  FINDS  A  "SKELETON".  271 

moniously,  supposing  the  room  unoccupied.  I  was  instructed 
to  wait  here  for  Mr.  Warburton." 

Winnie  was  first  to  recover  herself.  Turning  to  Alan,  she 
murmured  politely: 

"  I  think  my  time  has  expired  ;  good  evening,  Mr.  Warbur- 
ton." 

As  she  swept  from  the  room,  the  stranger  approached  Alan, 
saying: 

"  This,  then,  is  Mr.  Warburton.  My  name  is  Grip,  sir; 
Augustus  Grip." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

« 

MR.  GRIP  FINDS   A  "SKELETON". 

This  sudden  appearance  of  Mr.  Grip  was  not  precisely  to 
Alan  Warburton's  taste,  and  he  eyed  his  visitor  with  a  some- 
what haughty  air,  while  he  said  : 

"  Mr.  Grip  is  prompt,  to  say  the  least.  I  believe  that  the 
hour—" 

"  Hour  appointed,  between  three  and  four — precisely,  sir ; 
precisely.  But  my  time's  valuable,  Mr.  Warburton ;  valuable, 
sir !  And  it's  better  too  early  than  too  late.  Everything's 
cut  and  dried,  and  nothing  else  on  hand  for  this  hour;  couldn't 
afford  to  waste  it." 

Mr.  Grip's  words  fell  from  his  lips  like  hailstones  from 
a  November  sky — rap,  rap,  rap ;  patter,  patter ;  swift,  sharp, 
decisive.  And  Alan  was  not  slow  to  realize  that  all  the  com- 
bined dignity  of  alj  the  combined  Warburtons,  would  be  ut- 
terly lost  upon  this  plebeian. 

Plebeian,  Mr.  Grip  evidently  was,  from  the  crown  of  his. 


272    '  DA^^i.i;uUS  UiUJUJS'D. 


head  to  the  tips  of  his  too  highly  polished,  creaking  boots. 
Vulgarity  reveled  in  the  plaid  of  his  jaunty  business  suit, 
flaunted  in  the  links  of  his  glittering  watch  guard,  and  gleamed 
in  the  folds  of  his  gorgeous  neck  gear.  You  smelled  it  in  his 
ambrosial  locks;  you  saw  it  in  his  self-satisfied  face,  and  heard 
it  in  his  inharmonious  voice. 

And  this  was  Augustus  Grip,  of  Scotland  Yards!  Well,  one 
might  be  a  good  detective  and  yet  not  be  a  gentleman.  So 
mused  Alan;  and  then,  seeing  that  Mr.  Grip,  while  waiting 
for  him  to  speak,  was  utilizing  the  seconds  by  making  a  sur- 
vey of  the  premises,  he  said  : 

"Will  you  be  seated,  Mr.  Grip?" 

Mr.  Grip  dropped  comfortably  into  the  nearest  lounging- 
chair,  crossed  one  knee  over  the  other,  and  resting  a  hand  o*n 
either  arm  of  the  chair,  began  to  talk  rapidly. 

"  I've  got  your  business  down  fine,  sir  ;  fine"  emphasizing 
with  both  hands  upon  the  chair  arms.  "  Saves  time  ;  always 
do  it  when  possible.  Posted  at  Agency  —  less  to  learn  here." 
And  Mr.  Grip  begins  to  fumble  in  the  breast-pocket  of  his 
startling  plaid  coat.  "Was  informed  by  —  urn  —  uni  —  "  pro- 
ducing a  packet  of  folded  papers  and  running  them  over 
rapidly  ;  "  oh,  here  we  are." 

He  restores  the  packet  to  his  pocket,  having  selected  the 
proper  memoranda,  and  then  without  rising,  but  with  a  jerk- 
ing movement  of  the  knees  and  elbows,  he  propels  his  chair 
toward  the  table  near  which  Alan  is  still  standing.  Putting 
the  memoranda  on  the  table  before  him,  he  unfolds  them 
rapidly,  and  looks  up  at  his  host. 

"  Sit  down,  Warburton."  . 

A  look  of  displeasure  flits  across  Alan's  face.  He  remains 
standing,  seeming  to  grow  more  haughtily  erect. 


MR.  GRIP  FINDS   A  "SKELETON."  273 

"My  instructions/'  continues  Mr.  Grip,  Avho  has  not  lifted 
his  eyes  from  the  documents  before  him,  "are,  take  entire 
charge  of  case;  investigate  in  o\vn  way.  That's  what  I  like." 

If  Alan  had  ventured  a  comment  just  then,  it  would  have 
been,  "you  are  not  what  /like."  But  he  did  not  speak;  and 
Mr.  Grip,  having  paused  for  a  remark  and  hearing  none,  now 
glanced  up. 

"  Is  that  your  pleasure,  Mr.  Warburton  ?" 

A  certain  touch  of  acidity  in  the  tone,  recalls  Alan  to  a  sense 
of  his  position.  This  man  before  him  is  a  man  of  business,  a 
detective  highly  recommended  by  the  Chief  of  Police,  and  he 
needs  his  services.  He  moves  a  step  nearer  the  table  and  be- 
gins. 

"That  is  what  I—" 

"Precisely,"  breaks  in  Mr.  Grip.  "Now,  then,"  referring 
to  papers,  "first — sit  down,  won't  you?  it's  more  sociable." 

And  Alan  puts  his  aristocracy  in  his  pocket  and  sits  down 
opposite  the  dazzling  necktie. 

"Now  then,"  recommences  Mr.  Grip,  "I've  got  the  facts  in 
the  case." 

"You  have?" 

"  Facts  in  case ;  yes."  And  he  takes  up  the  memoranda, 
reading  therefrom  : 

"Lost  child;  dmighter  of  Archibald  Warburton;  only 
daughter."  Then,  turning  his  eyes  upon  Alan  :  "  Father  killed 
by  shock,  I'm  told;  sad — very." 

And  he  resumes  his  reading.  "Relatives:  Alan  Warbur- 
ton, uncle;  fond  of  niece,  eh — ahem;  step-mother — urn — a 
little  mysterious;  little  under  suspicion." 

"Stop!"  interrupts  Alan  sternly.  "On  what  authority 
dare  you  make  such  assertions?" 

18 


274  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Mr.  Grip  permits- the  hand  which  holds  the  papers  to  rest 
upon  one  knee,  and  lifts  his  eyes  to  the  face  of  his  inter- 
rogator. 

"I've  reconnoitred,"  he  says  tersely.  "It's  a  detective's 
business  to  reconnoitre.  I'm  familiar  with  the  facts  in  the 
case." 

Alan  feels  the  perspiration  start  upon  his  brow,  while  he 
utters  a  mental,  "  Heaven  forbid  !" 

"  Now  then,"  resumes  Mr.  Grip,  throwing  himself  back  in 
his  chair  and  stretching  his  legs  underneath  the  table;  "now 
then,  here  we  go.  Daisy  Warburton  is  her  father's  heiress. 
Remove  her,  the  bulk  of  property  probably  goes  to  second 
wife — step  mother,  d'ye  see?  Remove  her,  property  comes 
down  to  you" 

"Stop,  sir!  How  dare  you — preposterous!"  And  Alan 
Warburton  pushes  back  his  chair  and  rises,  an  angry  flush 
upon  his  face. 

Mr.  Grip  rises  also.  Stepping  nimbly  out  from  between 
the  big  chair  and  the  table  before  it,  he  inserts  his  two  hands 
underneath  his  two  coat  tails,  bends  his  head  forward,  raising, 
himself  from  time  to  time  on  the  tips  of  his  toes  as  he  talks, 
and  replies  suavely : 

"  Ta  ta;  I'm  reasoning.  They  have  not  both  disappeared, 
have  they?  The  lady  in  question  is  in  the  house  at  this  pres- 
ent moment,  is  she  not?" 

"She  is,"  replied  Alan,  beginning  to  feel  most  uncomforta- 
ble. 

"She  is.  Well,  now,  if  she  should  disappear,  then  suspicion 
might  point  to  you.  As  it  is — ahem — "  Here  Alan  fancies 
that  Mr.  Grip  is  watching  him  furtively.  "  As  it  is — we  will 
begin  to  investigate," 


"  Stop,  sir!    How  dare  you — preposterous  I"— page  274. 

275 


276  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Mr.  Grip  reseats  himself,  folds  away  his  memoranda,  and, 
reclining  once  more  at  his  ease,  looks  up  at  Alan  coolly. 

"  First,  Mr.  "Warburton,  I  must  see  your  sister-in-law." 

Alan  cannot  restrain  his  start  of  surprise,  nor  the  look  of 
anxiety  that  crosses  his  face. 

"Not  at  present,"  he  says,  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 
"She  is  ill;  it  would— " 

"So  much  the  better,"  interrupts  the  detective.  "  Worn 
out,  no  doubt;  nervous.  May  surprise  something.  /  must 
see  her,  and  every  other  member  of  this  household,  myself  un- 
seen." 

"Ah!"  thinks  Alan,  his  hands  clenching  themselves  in- 
voluntarily, "  if  I  dared  throw  you  out  of  the  window!" 

And  then,  with  a  shade  more  of  haughtiness  than  he  had  as 
yet  used  in  addressing  this  man,  who  was  fast  becoming  his 
tormentor,  he  asks: 

"Mr.  Grip,  is  this  so  very  necessary?" 

Slowly  the  detective  leans  forward ;  slowly  he  raises  a  warn- 
ing forefinger. 

"My  dear  sir,"  he  says  impressively,  "  if  you  want  to  catch 
a  thief  will  you  say,  'come  here,  my  dear,  and  be  arrested?' 
No,  sir;  you  catch  her  unawares.  Tell  that  fine  lady  that 
she  is  to  be  interviewed  by  a  detective,  and,  presto!  she  shuts 
her  secrets  up  behind  a  mantle  of  smiles  or  sneers.  Call  her 
in,  and  lead  her  to  talk  ;  I'll  employ  my  eyes  and  ears.  Use 
the  cues  set  down  here — "  he  extends  to  Alan  a  folded  slip 
of  paper.  "  Put  her  at  her  ease,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me. 
Now  then — " 

Again  he  rises,  and  this  time  he  begins  a  slow  survey  of  the 
room. 

Alan,  thoroughly  alarmed  for  Leslie's  safety  as  well  as  for 


MR.  GRIP  FINDS  A  "SKELETON".  277 

his  own,  begins  to  wonder  how  this  strange  interview  is  to 
end.  Even  if  he  should  summon  Leslie,  would  she  come  at 
his  call?  Yes;  he  feels  sure  that  she  would,  remembering  her 
message  of  the  morning.  And  what  may  she  not  j-ay?  If 
he  could  give  her  a  word,  a  sign  of  warning.  But  those  eyes, 
that  are  even  now  bestowing  questioning  glances  upon  him, 
are  too  keen.  He  would  only  bungle.  He  will  try  again. 

"  Mr.  Grip,"  he  says,  "my  sister-in-law  is  already  ill  from 
ex.-ilement.  If  we  could  spare  her  this  interview — " 

"  Sir !"  Augustus  Grip  wheels  suddenly,  and  looks 
straight  into  his  face  while  he  continues  sharply  :  "  My  good 
sir;  for  your  own  sake,  don't!  You  should  have  no  reason 
for  keeping  a  witness  in  the  background." 

The  hot  angry  Warburton  blood  surges  up  to  Alan's  brow. 
Realizing  his  danger  more  than  ever,  and  recognizing  in  the 
man  before  him  a  force  that  might,  perhaps,  be  bought  or 
baffled,  but  never  evaded,  he  lets  his  eyes  rest  for  a  moment, in 
haughty  defiance,  upon  the  detective's  face.  And  then  he 
turns  and  walks  to  the  door. 

"Where  do  you  purpose  to  conceal  yourself?"  he  asks 
coldly,  as  he  lays  his  hand  upon  the  bell-rope. 

Again  Grip  looks  about  him,  and  then  steps  toward  the 
cabinet  near  the  window. 

"  What's  this,"  he  asks,  with  his  hand  upon  the  closed  door. 
"Will  it  hold  me?" 

"  Yes,"  replies  Alan ;  "  that  will  hold  you."  And  he  pulls 
the  bell. 

"There's  no  resisting  Fate,"  he  mutters  to  himself.  "At 
least  that  fellow  shall  not  see  me  flinch  again,  let  Leslie  en- 
tangle me  as  she  may,  and  as  she  doubtless  will." 

And  then  there  tingled  in  his  veins  a  new  sensation — a 


278 

burning  desire  to  seize  that  most  impertinent,  vulgar  trail- 
hunter,  who  was  now  tugging  away  at  his  cabinet  door,  and 
send  him  crashing  headlong  through  the  window  into  the 
street  below. 

"  Ask  Mrs.  Warburton  if  she  will  grant  me  a  few  moments 
of  her  time,"  he  said  to  the  servant  who  appeared  at  the  door, 
which  Alan  did  not  permit  him  to  open  more  than  half  way. 
And  then  he  turned  his  attention  to  Mr.  Grip. 

That  individual,  still  tugging  unsuccessfully  at  the  door  of 
the  cabinet,  has  grown  impatient. 

"  It's  locked !"  he  says,  with  an  angry  snap. 

"  No," — Alan  strides  toward  him — "  it  is  not  locked." 
And  he  adds  his  strength  to  that  of  Mr.  Grip. 

•  A  moment  the  door  hesitates ;  then  it  yields  with  a  sudden- 
ness which  causes  Alan  to  reel,  and  flies  open. 

In  another  instant,  Grip  has  pounced  upon  the  luckless 
organ-grinder,  and  dragged  him  into  the  centre  of  the  room, 
where  he  crouches  at  Alan's  feet,  the  very  image  of  terrified 
misery,  limp  and  unresisting. 

"That's  a  pretty  thing  to  keep  hid  away !"  snarled  the  now 
thoroughly  angry  detective.  "I've  heard  of  skeletons  in 
closets,  hut  this  thing  looks  more  like  a  monkey." 

"  More  like  a  sneak  thief,  I  should  say,"  remarks  Alan, 
with  aggravating  coolness.  "  Anda  very  cowardly  oneat  that." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

"  WE   TWO  WILL  MEET  AGAIN." 

There  may  have  been  times  in  Alan  War  burton's  life — such 
times  come  to  most   fastidious   city-bred   people — when  he 


"That's  a  pretty  thing  to  keep  hid  away  1"  snarls  the  now  thoroughly 
angry  detective."— page  278. 

279 


280  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

doubted  the  wisdom  of  Providence  in  permitting  the  "street 
musician"  to  inherit  the  earth,  and,  especially  to  transport  so 
much  of  his  "  heritage/'  wheresoever  he  might  go,  upon  his 
person.  But  to-d.iy,  for  the  first  time,  lie  fancies  that  he  sees 
some  reason  for  the  existence  of  the  species,  and  he  finds  him- 
self looking  down  almost  complacently  upon  the  crouching 
minstrel  who  has  lawlessly  invaded  the  sanctity  of  his  splendid 
cabinet. 

This  strange  intruder  has  brought  him  at  least  a  respite ; 
and  he  breathes  a  sigh  of  relief  even  as  he  asks  sternly : 

"  Fellow,  how  long  have  you  been  hiding  in  that  cabinet?" 

But  the  culprit  is  once  more  a  mute;  again  the  pathetic 
look  is  in  his  eyes,  and  with  Grip's  hand  still  clutching  his 
shoulder,  he  begins  a  terrified  pantomine. 

"Bah!"  says  Mr.  Grip,  pushing  his  prisoner  away  con- 
temptuously, "  that  won't  wash.  You  ain't  deaf — not  much  ; 
nor  dumb,  neither.  Answer  me,"  giving  him  a  rough  shake, 
"  how  came  you  here?" 

There  is  no  sign  that  the  fellow  hears  or  understands;  he 
continues  to  gesticulate  wildly. 

Mr.  Grip  releases  his  hold,  and  bends  upon  Alan  a  look  of 
impatience.  In  a  moment,  the  organ-grinder  bounds  to  the 
cabinet  and,  dragging  forth  his  organ,  turns  back,  displaying 
it  and  slinging  it  across  his  shoulder  with  grimaces  of  triumph. 

"That  won't  go  down,  either,"  snarls  Mr.  Grip.  "Put 
that  thing  on  the  floor,  presto  /" 

But  the  minstrel  only  grins  with  delight,  and  throwing 
himself  into  an  attitude,  begins  to  grind  out  a  doleful  air. 
With  an  angry  growl,  Mr.  Grip  makes  a  movement  toward 
him.  But  the  organist  retreats  as  he  advances,  and  the  dole- 
ful tune  goes  on. 


"WE  TWO  WILL  MEET  AGAIN."  281 

It  is  a  ludicrous  picture,  and  Alan  smiles  in  spite  of  him- 
self, even  while  he  wishes  that  Leslie  would  come  now, — now, 
while  he  might  warn  her ;  now,  while  Mr.  Augustus  Grip,  in 
his  pursuit  of  the  intruding  musician,  has  put  the  width  of  the 
room  between  himself  and  his  chosen  place  of  concealment. 

But  Leslie  does  not  come.  And  Mr.  Grip's  next  remark 
shows  that  he  has  not  forgotten  himself.  With  a  sudden 
movement,  he  wrests  the  organ  from  the  hands  of  its  manip- 
ulator, and  converting  the  strap  of  the  instrument  into  a  very 
serviceable  lasso,  brings  the  fellow  down  upon  his  knees  with 
a  quid:,  dexterous  throw,  and  holding  him  firmly  thus,  says 
over  his  shoulder,  to  Alan  : 

"This  is  a  fine  thing  to  happen  just  now !  The  fellow  must 
be  got  out  of  the  way,  and  kept  safe  until  I  have  time  to  dis- 
cover his  racket.  He's  not  such  a  fool  as  he  looks.  Can't 
you  get  in  a  policeman  quietly?  We  don't  want  any  servants 
to  gossip  over  it,  or  to  see  me." 

Alan  turns  his  face  toward  the  closet.  "Can't  we  lock  him 
up  again  ?"  he  suggests. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  says  Grip  coolly,  "this  fellow  is  probably  a 
spy." 

"  What !"  Alan  starts,  and  turns  a  sharp  glance  upon  the 
organ-grinder.  Then  he  seems  to  recover  all  his  calmness  and 
says  quietly,  "nonsense;  look  at  that  stolid  countenance." 

"Umph!"  mutters  Grip;  "too  much  hair  and  dirt."  Then 
turning  toward  the  side  window:  "I  intend  to  satisfy  myself 
about  this  fellow  later.  Get  in  a  policeman  somehow ;  try 
the  window." 

As  Alan  goes  toward  the  window,  the  organ-grinder  seem- 
ing in  a  state  of  utter  collapse,  and  making  no  effort  to  free 
himself  from  the  grasp  of  Mr.  Grip,  still  crouches  beside  his 


282 

organ,  and  begins  anew  his  pleading,  terrified  pantomine. 

"Ah,"  says  Alan,  as  the  window  yields  to  his  touch,  "this 
window  must  have  been  the  place  where  he  entered."  Then, 
after  a  prolonged  look  up  and  down  the  street:  "I  don't  see 
an  officer  anywhere." 

"No;  I  presume  not.     Try  the  other  windows." 

"The  other  windows,  Mr.  Grip,  look  out  upon  the 
grounds." 

"Perdition!  Keep  quiet,  you  fellow.  Then  shut  that 
window,  sir,  and  come  and  guard  this  door ;  the  lady  may 
present  herself  at  any  moment." 

Alan  turns  again,  and  looks  down  into  the  street. 

"I  think,"  he  says,  quietly,  "that  we  will  just  drop  him 
back  into  the  street  whence  he  came." 

"  You  seem  to  want  this  fellow  to  escape,"  snarls  the  de- 
tective, casting  upon  Alan  a  glance  of  suspicion.  "  He  shall 
not  escape ;  I'll  take  care  of  him!" 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  study  flies  suddenly  open, 
and  Millie,  breathless  and  with  eyes  distended,  precipitates 
herself  into  the  room. 

"  Mr.  Alan,"  she  pants,  without  pausing  to  note  the  other 
occupants  of  the  room,-  "  we  can't  find  Mrs.  Warburton ;  she 
is  not  in  the  house !" 

"What!"  Alan  strides  toward  her  in  unfeigned  astonish- 
ment. 

"Ah-h-h!"  Mr.  Grip  turns  swiftly,  and  his  single  syllable 
is  as  full  of  meaning  as  is  his  face  of  derision,  and  suspicion 
confirmed. 

"Impossible,  Millie,"  says  Alan  sharply;  "go  to  Miss 
French—" 

"I  did,  sir,  and  she  is — " 


"WE  TWO  WILL  MEET  AGAIN."  283 

She  pauses  abruptly,  for  there  in  the  doorway  is  Winnie 
French,  pale  and  tearful,  an  open  letter  in  her  hand. 

"Read  that,  sir,"  she  says,  going  straight  up  to  Alan  and 
extending  to  him  the  letter.  "See  what  your  cruelty  has  done. 
Leslie  Warburton  is  gone!" 

"Gone!" 

This  time  Grip  and  Alan  both  utter  the  word,  both  start 
forward. 

For  just  one  moment  the  hand  that  clutches  the  collar  of 
the  organ-grinder  relaxes  its  hold,  but  that  moment  is  enough. 
With  amazing  agility,  and  seemingly  by  one  movement,  the 
prisoner  has  freed  himself  and  is  on  his  feet.  In  another 
second,  by  a  clever  wrestler's  manoauvre,  he  has  thrown  Mr. 
Grip  headlong  upon  the  floor.  And  then,  before  the  others 
can  realize  his  intentions,  he  has  bounded  to  the  open  window, 
and  flung  himself  out,  as  easily  and  as  carelessly  as  would  a 
cat. 

But  Mr.  Grip,  discomfited  for  the  moment,  is  not  wanting 
in  alertness.  He  is  on  his  feet  before  the  man  has  cleared  the 
window.  He  bounds  toward  it,  and  drawing  a  small  revolver, 
fires  after  the  fugitive — once — twice. 

"Stopl"  It  is  Alan  Warburtou's  voice,  stern  and  ringing. 
He  has  seized  the  pistol  arm,  and  holds  it  in  a  grasp  that  Mr. 
Grip  finds  difficult  to  release. 

"Hands  off!"  cries  Grip,  now  hoarse  with  rage.  "That 
man's  a  spy  !" 

"  No  matter ;  we  will  have  no  more  shooting." 

"  We!"  struggling  to  release  his  arm  from  Alan's  firm 
grasp ;  "nvho  are  you  that — " 

"  I  am  master  here,  sir." 

With  an  angry  hiss,  the  detective  from  Scotland  Yards 


284  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

throws  himself  upon  Alan,  and  they  engage  in  a  fierce  strug- 
gle. But  Alan  Warburton  is  something  more  than  a  ball- 
room hero ;  he  is  an  adept  in  the  manly  sports,  and  fully  a 
match  for  Mr.  Grip. 

Panting  and  terrified,  Winnie  and  Millie  stand  together 
near  the  door;  and  the  eyes  of  the  latter  damsel  wander  from 
the  combatants  near  the  window,  to  something  that  has  fallen 
close  at  her  feet,  and  that  lies  half  hidden  by  the  folds  of  her 
dress. 

But  disaster  has  befallen  Mr.  Grip.  While  they  wrestle, 
Alan's  quick  eye  has  detected  something  that  looks  like  a  dis- 
placement of  Mr.  Grip's  cranium,  and  with  a  sudden,  dexterous, 
upward  movement,  he  solves  the  mystery.  There  is  an  ex- 
clamation of  surprise,  another  of  anger,  and  the  two  combat- 
ants stand  apart,  both  gazing  down  at  the  thing  lying  on  the 
floor  between  them. 

It  is  a  wig  of  curling  auburn  hair,  and  it  leaves  the  head 
of  Mr.  Grip  quite  a  different  head  in  shape,  in  size,  in  height 
of  forehead,  and  in  general  expression ! 

''So,"  sneers  Alan,  "Mr.  Grip,  of  Scotland  Yards,  saw  fit 
to  visit  me  in  disguise.  Is  your  name  as  easily  altered  as 
your  face,  sir?" 

The  discomfited  wrestler  stoops  down,  and  picking  up  his 
wig  adjusts  it  carefully  on  his  head  one"  more;  bends  again 
to  take  up  his  fallen  pistol;  lifts  his  hat  from  a  chair,  and 
returns  to  the  window. 

"  My  name  is  not  Augustus  Grip,"  he  says  coolly.  "  Neither 
\vill  you  find  me  by  inquiring  at  police  headquarters.  But 
you  and  I  will  meet  again,  Mr.  Warburton." 

And  without  unseemly  haste,  he  places  his  hand  upon 
the  window-sill,  swings  himself  over  the  ledge,  resting  his 


"Drawing  a  small  revolver,  he  fires  after  the  fugitive— once — twice  I" 
page  283. 

285 


286  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

feet  upon  the  iron  railings,  and  drops  down  upon  the  pavement. 

By  this  time  some  people  have  collected  outside,  attracted 
by  the  pistol-shots.  Two  laggard  policemen  are  hastening 
down  the  street.  A  group  of  servants  are  whispering  and 
consulting  anxiously  in  the  hall,  and  cautiously  peeping  in  at 
the  study  door. 

The  coolness  of  the  false  Mr.  Grip  takes  him  safely  past  the 
group  of  inquiring  ones. 

"It  was  a  sneak  thief,"  he  explains,  as  he  leaps  down  among 
them.  "Don't  detain  me,  friends;  I  must  report  this  affair 
at  police  headquarters." 

A  few  quick  strides  take  him  across  the  street  to  where  a 
carriage  stands  in  waiting.  He  enters  it,  and  in  a  moment 
more,  Mr.  Grip  and  carriage  have  whirled  out  of  sight. 

"I'd  give  a  hundred  dollars  to  know  what  that  fellow  was 
in  hiding  for,"  he  mused,  as  the  carriage  rolled  swiftly  along. 
"  Could  he  have  been  put  there  by  Warburton  ?  But  no — 
Confound  that  Warburton,  I'll  humble  his  pride  before  we 
cry  quits,  or  my  name  is  not  Van  Vernet!" 

But  Vernet  little  dreamed  that  he  had  that  day  aimed  a 
bullet  at  the  life  of  a  brother  detective;  that  his  disguise  had 
been  penetrated  and  his  plans  frustrated,  by  Richard  Stanhope  ! 


CHAPTER  XL. 

AN  ARMISTICE. 


If  Van  Vernet  had  been  thwarted,  in  a  measure,  Richard 
Stanhope  had  been  no  less  baffled. 

Each  had  succeeded  partially,  and  each  had  beaten  a  too 
hasty  and  altogether  unsatisfactory  retreat. 


AN  ARMISTICE.  287 

Van  Vernet  had  planned  well.  By  keeping  himself  in- 
formed as  to  the  doings  at  police  headquarters,  he  had  been 
aware  of  all  the  efforts  there  being  made  in  the  search  for 
the  missing  child.  He  found  it  quite  easy  to  possess  himself 
of  a  sheet  and  envelope  bearing  the  official  stamp ;  and  by 
writing  his  spurious  letter  in  a  most  unreadable  scrawl,  and 
ending  with  a  signature  positively  undecipherable,  he  had 
guarded  himself  against  dangerous  consequences  should  a 
charge  of  forgery,  by  any  mischance,  be  preferred  against  him. 
The  disguise  was  a  mere  bit  of  child's  play  to  Van  Vernet, 
and  the  rest  "went  by  itself. 

His  object  in  thus  entering  the  Warburton  house  was,  first, 
to  see  Alan  Warburton  ;  study  his  face  and  hear  his  voice; 
to  satisfy  himself,  as  far  as  possible,  as  to  the  feud,  or  seeming 
feud,  between  Alan  and  his  brother's  wife — for  since  the  day 
on  which  he  had  discovered,  and  he  had  taken  pains  since  to 
confirm  this  discovery,  that  the  six-foot  masker  who  had  per- 
sonated Archibald  Warburton  was  hot  Archibald  Warburton, 
but  his  brother  Alan,  Van  Vernet  had  harbored  many  vague 
suspicions  concerning  the  family  and  its  mysteries.  He  had 
also  hoped  to  see  Leslie,  and  to  surprise  from  one  or  both  of 
them  some  word,  or  look,  or  tone,  that  would  furnish  him 
with  a  clue,  if  ever  so  slight. 

Well,  he  had  surprised  several  things,  so  he  assured  him- 
self, but  he  had  not  seen  Leslie.  And  the  denouement  of  his 
visit  had  rendered  it  impossible  for  him  ever  to  reenter  that 
house,  in  the  character  of  Mr.  Augustus  Grip. 

True,  he  had  learned  something.  He  had  heard  Winnie's 
words  :  "  Leslie  is  not  a  child  ;  and  you  must  have  said  bit- 
terly cruel  words  before  you  left  her  in  a  dead  faint  on  that 
library  floor  last  night."  And  he  had  coupled  these  with 


288  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

those  other  words  uttered  by  Winnie  as  she  confronted  Alan, 
with  that  farewell  note  in  her  hand:  "Read  that;  see  what 
your  cruelty  has  done." 

Was  this  girl  a  plotter,  too?  If  he  could  have  seen  that 
note  !  And  then  the  organ-grinder — .  On  the  whole,  he  was 
not  even  half  satisfied  with  the  result  of  his  expedition,  es- 
pecially when  he  re;;;  'inhered  that  organ-grinder,  and  how  he 
had  let  his  temper  escape  its  leash  and  rage  itself  into  that 
cold  white  heat,  his  most  intense  expression  of  wrath,  in  whic-1: 
he  had  openly  defied  Alan  Warburton,  and  flung  his  ov, :: 
colors  boldly  forth. 

Another  thing  puzzled  Vernet  exceedingly.  He  had  dis- 
covered Richard  Stanhope  at  the  Warburton  masquerade,  and 
had  bestowed  upon  him  the  character  of  lover.  Was  he  there 
in  that  character?  Was  he,  in  any  way,  mixed  up  with  their 
family  secrets?  Where  had  he  spent  the  remainder  of  that 
eventful  night  ?  Since  the  morning  when  Stanhope  had  re- 
ported to  his  Chief,  after  his  night  of  adventure  beginning 
with  the  masquerade,  Vernet  had  heard  no  word  from  that 
Chief  concerning  Stanhope's  unaccountable  conduct,  or  the 
abandoned  Raid. 

The  whole  affair  was  to  Vernet,  vague,  unsatisfactory, 
mysterious.  But  the  more  unsatisfactory,  the  more  mysteri- 
ous it  became,  the  more  doggedly  determined  became  he. 

He  had  not  forgotten,  nor  was  he  neglecting,  the  Arthur 
Pearson  murder.  He  was  pursuing  that  investigation  after  a 
manner  quite  satisfactory — to  himself  at  least. 

There  are  in  most  cities,  and  connected  with  many  detective 
forces,  and  more  individual  members  of  forces,  a  class  of  men, 
mongrels,  we  might  say, — a  cross  between  the  lawyer  and  the 
detective  but  actually  neither,  and  sometimes  fitted  for  both. 


AN  ARMISTIC^.  289 

They  are  called,  by  those  initiated,  "private  enquirers," 
"  trackers/'  "  bloodhounds." 

These  gentry  are  often  employed  by  lawyers,  as  well  as  by 
detectives  and  the  police.  They  trace  out  titles,  run  down 
witnesses,  hunt  up  pedigrees,  unearth  long-forgotten  family 
secrets.  They  are  searchers  of  records,  borrowers  into  the 
past.  Their  work  is  slow,  laborious,  pains-taking,  tedious. 
But  it  is  not  dangerous;  the  unsafe  tracks  are  left  to  the  de- 
tective proper. 

Into  the  careful  hands  of  some  of  these  gentry,  Van  Vernet 
had  entrusted  certain  threads  from  the  woof  of  the  "  Arthur 
Pearson  murder  case,"  as  they  styled  it.  And  these  tireless 
searchers  were  burrowing  away  while  Vernet  was  busying 
himself  with  other  matters,  waiting  for  the  time  when  the 
"  tracker"  should  find  his  occupation  gone,  and  the  detective's 
efforts  be  called  in  play. 

Vernet  had  not  been  aware  of  the  close  proximity  of  his 
sometime  friend  and  present  rival.  He  had  felt  sure,  from 
the  first,  that  the  pretended  mute  was  other  than  he  seemed ; 
that  he  was  a  spy  and  marplot.  But  Richard  Stanhope's  dis- 
guise was  perfect,  and  Vernet  had  not  scrutinized  him  closely, 
being  in  such  haste  to  dispose  of  him,  and  expecting  to  in- 
vestigate his  case  later.  Then,  too,  Richard  Stanhope  was 
absent ;  he  had  not  been  seen,  or  heard  of,  at  the  Agency  for 
many  days. 

As  for  Stanhope,  he  had  not  been  slow  to  recognize  Van 
Vernet,  and  if  he  had  not  succeeded  in  all  that  he  had  hoped 
to  accomplish,  he  had  at  least  discovered  Vernet's  exact  posi- 
tion. And  he  had  left  a  slip  of  paper  where,  he  felt  very  sure, 
it  would  fall  into  the  right  hands.  For  the  rest,  he  came 
and  went  like  a  comet,  and  was  seen  no  more  for  many  weeks, 

19  *13 


290  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Meanwhile,  quiet  had  been  restored  in  Alan  Warburton's 
study,  and  Alan  himself  now  sat  with  a  crumpled  bit  of  paper 
in  his  hand. 

This  bit  of  paper  had  been  given  him  by  Millie,  who,  act- 
ing upon  Winnie's  advice,  had  made  to  Alan  a  very  meek 
confession  of  the  part  she  had  unwittingly  played  in  the  drama 
just  enacted. 

"  Of  course,  sir,  he  came  in  when  I  went  to  call  Miss  Win- 
nie," she  had  said  contritely.  "  But  oh,  he  did  look  so  sor- 
rowful, and  then  that  curl  of  hair !  I  was  so  sure  it  was  some- 
thing about  Miss  Daisy." 

Alan  had  listened  gravely,  had  glanced  at  the  bit  of  paper, 
and  then  dismissed  her  with  a  kind  word  and  a  smile,  and 
without  a  reprimand. 

When  this  unexpected  escape  had  been  joyfully  reported  to 
Winnie  French,  that  stony-hearted  damsel  elevated  her  nose 
aiul  said: 

"  Umph !  so  the  man  has  a  grain  of  something  besides  pride 
in  him  somewhere.  Well,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

To  which  Millie  had  replied,  warmly: 

"Why,  Miss  Winnie!  Think  how  he  fought  to  protect 
that  poor  organ  man,  who  had  come  to  rob  him,  maybe,  though 
I  can't  think  it.  That  was  splendid  in  him,  anyhow." 

And  this  had  reminded  Winnie  that  she  was  not  indulging 
in  a  soliloquy.  So,  having  charged  Millie  to  say  nothing 
about  the  events  of  the  afternoon,  she  dismissed  her,  and  sat 
sadly  down  to  peruse  Leslie's  farewell  note  once  more. 

DEAREST  WINNIE. 

I  am  going  away  to-nfght;  f  must  go.  Yesterday  I  was  about  to 
tell  you  my  story;  if  you  had  heard  it  then,  you  would  understand  now 
why  I  go.  Since  yesterday,  I  have  decided  to  keep  my  burden,  still 
strapped  to  my  o\vu  s 


AN  ARMISTICE.  291 

In  fact,  to  make  you  my  confidante  now  would  look  to  others,  per- 
haps to  you,  like  an  attempt  to  justify  my  acts.  One  favor  I  ask,  Win- 
nie: when  I  return,  if  I  do  return,  let  me  find  you  here.  Continue  to 
call  my  house,  for  it  is  my  house,  your  home.  I  have  asked  your 
mother  to  share  it  with  you,  and  to  be  in  every  sense  of  the  word  its 
mistress,  until  Daisy  is  found,  or  I  return.  Mr.  Follingsbee  will  regulate 
all  business  matters.  Trust  me  still,  and  don't  desert  me.  Winnie,  for 
time  or  for  eteruiiy,  farewell. 

LESLIE 

Filled  with  wonder  and  sorrow,  Winnie  sat  musing  over 
this  strange  note,  when  she  received  a  message  from  Alan : 
would  she  come  to  him  in  the  library ;  it  was  a  matter  of  im- 
portance. 

Rightly  guessing  that  he  wished  to  talk  of  Leslie,  Winnie 
arose  and  went  slowly  down  to  the  library,  a  gleam  of  resent- 
ment shining  through  the  tears  that  would  fill  her  eyes. 

Not  long  before  she  had  refused  to  talk  or  to  listen.  But 
now  she  must  know  why  Leslie  had  gone.  She  was  anxious 
to  face  Alan  Warburton. 

His  manner,  as  he  came  forward  to  receive  her,  had  under- 
gone a  change,  and  his  first  words  were  so  startlingly  like 
those  last  words  of  Leslie's,  that  Winnie's  tongue  failed  to 
furnish  the  prompt  sarcasm  usually  ready  to  meet  whatever 
he  might  choose  to  utter. 

He  was  standing  by  a  large  chair  as  she  entered  the  library, 
and  moving  this  a  trifle  forward,  he  said  simply,  and  with 
iust  such  a  gravely  courteous  tone  as  he  might  use  in  address- 
ing a  stranger : 

"Be  seated,  Miss  French/' 

Winnie  sank  into  the  proffered  chair,  and  he  draws  back  a 
few  paces,  and  standing  thus  before  her,  began: 

long  since  I  asked  you  to  listen  to  me,  and  then  to 


292  I'ANGEKOUS  GROUND. 

decide  between  another  and  myself.  I  do  not  repeat  this  re- 
quest, for  I  cannot  stand  before  you  and  accuse  a  woman  who 
is  not  here  to  speak  in  her  own  defence.  Although  I  did  not 
read  that  note  you  proffered  me,  I  have  satisfied  myself  that 
Mrs.  Warburton  has  gone." 

"Yes,"  sighed  "Winnie. 

"She  planned  her  flight,  if  flight  it  can  be  called,  very 
skilfully.  Everything  in  her  apartments  indicates  deliberate 
preparation.  She  took  r.o  baggage ;  no  one  knows  how  or 
when  she  quitted  the  lioiu-e.  But  she  left  two  letters — two 
besides  that  written  to  you.  One  is  addressed  to  Mr.  Follings- 
bee;  the  other  is  for  your  mother." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Winnie  once  more. 

"  These  letters,"  continued  Alan,  "  must  be  delivered  at 
once,  and  they  should  not  be  entrusted  to  the  hands  of  ser- 
vants. And  now,  Miss  French,  that  letter,  your  letter,  which 
you  proffered  me  in  a  moment  of  excitement,  I  will  not  ask 
to  see.  But  tell  me,  does  it  give  you  any  idea  of  her  destina- 
tion? Does  it  contain  anything  that  I  may  know?" 

A  leaden  weight  seemed  fastened  upon  Winnie's  facile  ton- 
gue. Something  in  her  throat  threatened  to  choke  her.  She 
put  her  hand  in  her  pocket,  slowly  drew  out  Leslie's  letter, 
and  silently  proffered  it  to  Alan. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  read  it?" 

She  nodded,  and  lifted  her  hand  to  brush  two  big  tears  from 
her  cheeks  with  a  petulant  motion. 

A  moment  he  stood  looking  at  her  intently,  an  expression 
of  tenderness  creeping  into  his  face.  Then  he  drew  back  a 
pace,  and  his  lips  settled  again  into  firm  lines  as  he  began  the 
perusal  of  Leslie's  letter. 

Having  read  the  missive  slowly  through  for  the  second  time. 


AN  AKMISTICE. 

Alan    refolded    it    and    gravely    returned    it    to    Winnie. 

"Thank  you/' he  said,  in  a  subdued  tone.  "I  am  quite 
well  aware,  Miss  French,  that  no  word  of  mine  can  influence 
you  in  the  slightest  degree.  Were  this  not  so,  I  would  beg 
most  earnestly  that  you  would  comply,  in  every  respect,  with 
the  wishes  Mrs.  Warburton  has  expressed." 

While  he  perused  the  letter,  Winnie  had  somewhat  recovered 
herself,  and  she  now  looked  up  quickly. 

"In  every  respect?  Mr.  Warburton,  that  note  says — 
'  trust  me ;  do  not  desert  me.'  " 

"  And  I  say  the  same.  To-day  Leslie  Warburton  needs  a 
true  friend  as  much — as  much  as  ever  woman  did." 

He  was  about  to  say,  "as  much  as  I  do,"  but  pride  stepped 
in  and  stopped  the  words  ere  they  could  pass  his  lips. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  said : 

"We  must  find  Leslie  if  possible,  of  course,  but  not  until 
we  have  seen  her  lawyer  and  consulted  him.  It  is  growing 
late,  but  time  is  precious.  Will  you  let  me  take  you  to  your 
mother's  at  once?  You  can  give  her  Leslie's  letter,  and  con- 
sult together.  Meantime,  I  will  drive  to  see  Follingsbee,  and 
call  for  you  on  my  return.  Of  course  your  mother  will  ac- 
company you ;  at  least  I  trust  so.  And,  Miss  French,  let  me 
assure  you,  here  and  now,  that  should  you  continue  to  honor 
this  house  with  your  presence,  you  will  not  be  further  annoyed 
by  my  importunities.  To-night,  for  the  first  time,  I  fully 
realize  that  I  have  no  right  to  ask  any  woman  to  share  a  fate 
that  is,  to  say  the  least,  under  a  cloud ;  or  to  take  upon  her- 
self a  name  that  may  be  at  any  moment  dishonored  before 
the  world.  Shall  I  order  the  carriage  ?  Will  you  go,  Miss 
French  ?" 

There  was  something  masterful  in  his  stern  self-command 


294  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Ills  ability  to  think  and  act  with  such  promptitude  and  fore- 
thought, and  it  had  its  effect  upon  Winnie. 

"I  will  go,"  she  said,  rising  and  turning  toward  the  door. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  then  hastened  to  open  it. 

When  she  had  passed  out,  he  returned  to  his  old  position, 
and  once  more  glanced  down  at  the  piece  of  paper  which  all 
the  while  he  had  retained  in  his  hand.  It  was  the  note  flung 
at  Millie's  feet  by  the  fleeing  organ-grinder,  and  it  contained 
these  words: 

If  Alan  Warburton  will  call  on  Mr.  Follingsbee  as  soon  as  possible, 
he  will  find  there  a  communication  from  a  friend.  It  is  important  that 
he  should  receive  this  at  once. 

No  name,  no  elate,  no  signature,  but  it  explains  why  Millie 
escaped  without  a  reprimand. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

LESLIE  GOES   "  HOME." 

While  Alan  and  Winnie,  protected  by  their  temporary 
armistice,  were  hurrying  toward  the  modest  abode  of  Mrs. 
French,  each  intent  upon  solving  as  soon  as  possible  the  rid- 
dle of  Leslie's  flight,  the  Francoises  were  holding  high  council 
in  the  kitchen  of  their  most  recent  habitation. 

In  all  the  lists  of  professional  criminals,  there  were  not  two 
who  had  been,  from  their  very  earliest  adventure,  more  suc- 
cessful in  evading  the  police  than  Papa  and  Mamma  Fran- 
coise. 

Papa,  although  in  the  face  of  actual,  present  danger  he 


LESLIE  GOES  "HOME/*  295 

i 

Was  the  greater  coward  of  the  two,  possessed  a  rare  talent 
for  scheming,  and  laying  cunning  plans  to  baffle  the  too 
curious.  And  Mamma's  executive  ability  was  very  strong, 
of  its  kind.  In  the'  face  of  danger,  Mamma's  furious  temper 
and  animal  courage  stood  them  in  good  stead.  When  a  new 
scheme  was  on  foot,  Papa  took  the  lead. 

As  for  Franz,  he,  as  we  have  seen,  had  not  been  so  success- 
ful in  evading  the  representatives  of  law  and  order.  And  he 
had  returned,  having  escaped  from  durance  vile,  bringing  with 
him  a  strangely  developed  stock  of  his  Mother's  fierceness  and 
his  Father's  cunning. 

It  was  a  part  of  Papa's  policy  to  be,  at  all  times,  provided 
with  a  "retreat."  Not  content  with  an  abiding-place  for  the 
present,  the  pair  had  always,  somewhere  within  an  easy  dis- 
tance from  their  present  abode,  a  second  haven,  fitted  with 
the  commonest  necessaries  of  life,  but  seldom  anything  more, 
and  always  ready  to  receive  them.  Hence,  in  fleeing  from  the 
scene  of  the  Siebel  affray,  they  had  gone  to  the  attic  which 
stood  ready  to  shelter  them,  where  they  had  been  traced  by 
Vernet,  and  followed  by  Franz.  And  on  the  night  when 
they  had  left  Van  Vernet  to  a  fiery  death,  they  had  flown 
straight  to  another  ready  refuge. 

This  time  it  was  a  cottage,  old  and  shabby,  but  in  a  respect- 
able quarter  on  the  remotest  outskirts  of  the  city.  This  cot- 
tage, like  the  B —  street  tenement,  stood  quite  isolated  from 
its  neighbors,  for  it  was  one  of  Papa's  fine  points  to  choose  ever 
a  solitary  location,  or  else  lose  himself  in  a  locality  where 
humanity  swarmed  thickest,  and  where  each  was  too  eager  in 
his  own  struggle  for  existence  to  be  anxious  or  curious  about 
the  affairs  of  his  neighbors. 

This  cottage,  then,  was  shabby  enough,  but  not  so  shabby  as 


296  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

their  former  dwelling,  either  within  or  without.  Neither  did 
Papa  and  Mamma  present  quite  so  uncanny  an  appearance  as 
before.  They  were  somewhat  cleaner,  a  trifle  better  clad,  and 
somewhat  changed  in  their  general  aspect,  for  here  they  were 
presuming  themselves  to  be  "  poor  but  honest"  working  people, 
like  their  neighbors. 

In  this  pretence  they  were  ably  supported  by  Franz,  when 
he  was  sober.  And  drunkenness  not  being  strictly  confined 
to  the  wealthier  classes,  he  cast  no  discredit  upon  the  honesty 
of  his  parents  by  being  frequently  drunk. 

Papa  and  Mamma  were  regaling  themselves  with  a  late 
supper,  consisting  principally  of  beer  and  "  Dutch  bread,"  and 
as  usual,  when  tete-d-tete,  they  were  engaged  in  a  lively  dis- 
cussion. 

"  I  don't  like  the  way  that  boy  goes  on,"  remarks  Mamma, 
as  she  cuts  for  herself  a  slice  of  the  bread. 

Papa  sets  down  his  empty  beer  glass,  and  tilts  back  his 
chair. 

"Don't  ye?"  he  queries  carelessly. 

"No,  I  don't,"  retorts  Mamma  with  increasing  energy. 
"  He's  getting  too  reckless,  and  he  swigs  too  much." 

"  That's  a  fact,"  murmurs  Papa,  glancing  affectionately  at 
the  beer  pitcher. 

"  He'd  ought  ter  lay  low  for  a  good  wrhile  yet,"  goes  on 
Mamma,  "  instead  of  prowling  off  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and 
night.  Why,  he's  gone  more'n  he's  here." 

Papa  Francoise  brought  his  chair  back  into  regular  position 
with  a  slow  movement,  and  leaning  his  two  elbows  upon  the 
table,  leered  across  at  Mamma. 

"Look  here,  old  un,"  he  said  slowly,  "that  fellow's  just 
knocked  off  eight  or  ten  years  in  limbo,  and  don't  you  s'pose 


LESLIE  GOES  "HOME."  297 

he  prizes  his  liberty  ?  If  he  can't  keep  clear  o'  cops  and  beaks 
after  his  experience,  he  ain't  no  son  of  mine.  Don't  you  worry 
about  our  Franzy  ;  he's  got  more  brains  than  you  an'  me  put 
together.  I'm  blest  if  I  know  how  he  come  by  such  a  stock. 
I'm  beginning  to  take  pride  in  the  lad." 

"  Well/'  rejoins  Mamma  viciously,  "  he  ain't  much  like  you; 
if  he  was,  there  wouldn't  be  so  much  to  be  proud  of." 

"  That's  a  fact,"  assented  Papa  cheerfully.  "  He  ain't  like 
me;  he  sort  o'  generally  resembles  both  of  us.  And  I'm  blest 
if  he  ain't  better  lookin'  than  we  two  together." 

"Franzy's  changed,"  sighs  Mamma;  "he  ain't  the  same 
boy  he  uste  to  be.  If  it  wa'n't  fer  his  drink  in'  and  swearin', 
I  wouldn't  hardly  know  him." 

"Course  not;  nor  ye  didn't  know  him  till  he  interduced 
himself.  No  more  did  I.  When  a  feller  gets  sent  up  fer 
fifteen  years,  and  spends  ten  out  of  the  fifteen  try  in'  to  contrive 
•a  way  to  get  back  to  his  old  Pappy  and  Mammy,  it's  apt  to 
change  him  some.  Franzy's  improved,  he  is.  He's  cut  some 
eye-teeth.  Ah,  what  a  help  he'd  be,  if  I  could  only  git  past 
these  snags  and  back  to  my  old  business !" 

"Yes,"  sighed  Mamma,  and  then  suddenly  suspended  her 
speech  as  a  lively,  and  not  unmusical,  whistle  sounded  near  at 
hand. 

"  That's  him,"  she  said,  pushing  back  her  chair  and  rising. 
"  He  seems  to  be  comin'  good-natured."  And  she  hastened 
to  admit  the  Prodigal,  who,  if  he  had  returned  in  good  spirits, 
had  not  brought  them  all  on  the  outside,  for  as  he  entered  the 
room  with  a  cheerful  smirk  and  unsteady  step,  Papa  murmured 
aside : 

"Our  dear  boy's  drunk  agin." 

Unmindful  of  Mamma's  anxious  questions  concerning  his 


298  DANGEROtJS  GfcOtJNi). 

whereabouts,  Franzy  took  the  chair  she  had  just  vacated,  and 
began  a  survey  of  the  table. 

"Beer !"  he  said  contemptuously.  "I  wouldn't  drink  beer, 
not—" 

"  Not  when  you  have  drank  too  much  fire-water  already, 
Franzy,"  supplemented  Papa,  with  a  grin,  at  the  same  time 
drawing  the  pitcher  nearer  to  himself.  "No,  my  boy,  I 
wouldn't  if — if  I  were  you." 

Franz  utters  a  half  maudlin  laugh,  and  turns  to  the  old 
woman. 

"Is  this  all  yer  eatables?"  he  asks  thickly.  "Bring  us 
somethin'  else." 

"Yes,"  chimes  in  Papa,  "Franzy's  used  ter  first-class  fare, 
old  un;  bring  him  ? cinching  good." 

Mamma  moves  about,  placing  before  her  Prodigal  the  best 
food  at  hand,  and  presently  the  three  are  gathered  about  the 
table  again,  a  very  social  family  group. 

But  by-and-by  Mamma's  quick  ear  catches  a  sound  outside. 

"Some  one's  coming,"  she  says  in  a  sharp  whisper.  "I 
wonder — " 

She  stops  short  and  goes  to  a  window,  followed  by  Franz, 
who  peers  curiously  over  her  shoulder. 

"  It's  a  woman,"  he  says,  a  moment  later. 

"Hush,  Franzy,"  says  Mamma  sharply.  And  then  she 
goes  quickly  to  the  door. 

It  is  a  woman  who  enters;  a  woman  draped  in  black.  She 
throws  back  her  shrouding  veil  and  the  pure  pale  face  of 
Leslie  Warburton  is  revealed. 

Franz  Francoise  utters  a  sharp  ejaculation,  and  then  as 
Papa's  hand  presses  upon  his  arm,  he  relapses  into  silence  and 
draws  back  step  by  step. 


LESLIE  GOES  "HOME."  299 

"  Ah  !"  cries  Mamma,  starting  with  extended  hands  to  seize 
upon  the  new-comer;  "ah!  it's  our  own  dear  girl!" 

But  Leslie  repulses  the  proffered  embrace,  and  moves  aside. 

"Wait,"  she  says  coldly;  "wait."  And  she  looks  inquir- 
ingly at  Franz.  "  You  do  not  know  how  and  why  I  come." 

"No  matter  why  you  come,  dear  child," — it  is  Papa,  speak- 
ing in  his  oiliest  accents — "we  are  glad  to  see  you;  very 
glad." 

Again  Leslie's  eyes  rest  upon  Franz,  and  Mamma  says*. 

"Oh,  speak  out,  my  dear.  This  is  our  boy,  Franz;  your 
brother,  my  child." 

"Yes,"  Papa  chimes  in  blithely,  "how  beautiful  this  is; 
how  delightful!" 

Leslie  favors  Franz  with  a  steady  look,  and  turns  to 
Mamma. 

"Then  I  am  not  your  only  child,"  she  says,  with  a  proud 
curl  of  the  lip. 

And  Mamma,  seeing  the  look  on  her  face,  regrets,  for  the 
once,  the  presence  of  her  beloved  Prodigal. 

But  Franz  has  quite  recovered  himself,  and  moving  a  trifle 
nearer  the  group  by  the  door,  he  mutters,  seemingly  for  his 
own  benefit,  "well,  this  let's  me  out!" 

Hearing  which,  Mamma  glances  from  Franz  to  Leslie,  and 
spreading  out  her  two  bony  palms  in  a  sort  of  "  bless-you-my- 
children"  gesture,  says  theatrically  : 

"  Ah-h,  you  were  too  young  to  remember  each  other ;  at 
least  you  were  too  young  to  remember  Franzy.  But  he  don't 
forget  you;  do  you,  Franzy,  my  boy?  You  don't  forget 
Leschen — little  Leschen?" 

"Don't  I  though?"  mutters  Franz  under  his  breath,  and 
then  he  moves  forward  with  an  unsteady  lurch,  saying  aloud: 


300  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Eh?  oh,  Leschen:  little  Leschen.  Why  in  course  I — I  re- 
member." 

"Ah!"  cries  Mamma  with  enthusiasm,  "many's  the  time 
you've  rocked  her,  when  she  wasn't  two  years  old." 

"Franzy  was  allers  good  'bout  sech  things,"  chimes  in 
Papa. 

"Umph!"  grunts  Franz,  turning  to  Papa,  "where's  she 
been?" 

"My  boy,"  replies  Papa  impressively, "  Leschen's  been  liv- 
ing like  a  lady  ever  since  she  was  adopted  away  from  us.  Of 
course  you  can't  remember  each  other  much,  but  ye  oil  to  be 
civil  to  yer  sister." 

"  That's  a  fact,"  assents  Franz,  coming  quite  close  to  Leslie. 
'•'Say,  Leschen,  don't  ye  be  afraid  o'  me;  I  kin  see  that  ye 
don't  like  my  looks  much.  Say,  can't  ye  remember  me  at  all?" 

A  full  moment  Leslie  scans  him  from  head  to  foot,  with  a 
look  of  proud  disdain.  Then  turning  towards  Mamma,  she 
says  bitterly : 

"I  am  more  fortunate  than  I  hoped  to  be." 

"Ain't  ye,  now?"  chimes  in  Franz  cheerfully.  "Say,  ye 
look  awful  peaked."  And  he  hastens  to  fetch  a  chair,  his  feet 
almost  tripping  in  the  act.  "There,"  he  says,  placing  it  be- 
side her,  "  sit  down,  do,  an'  tell  us  the  news." 

She  sinks  wearily  upon  the  proffered  seat,  and  again  turns 
her  face  toward  Mamma. 

"Yes,"  she  says  coldly,  "let  me  tell  my  news,  since  this  is 
a  family  gathering.  You  have  deplored  my  loss  so  often  that 
I  have  returned.  I  have  come  to  live  with  you." 

The  consternation  that  sits  upon  two  of  three  faces  turned 
toward  her,  is  indeed  ludicrous,  and  Franz  Francoise  utters 
an  audible  chuckle.  Then  the  elders  find  their  tongues. 


LESLIE  GOES  "HOME."  301 

"Ah,"  groans  Papa,  "she's  jokin'  at  the  poor  old  folks." 

"Ah,"  sighs  Mamma,  "there's  no  such  luck  for  poor 
people." 

"  Reassure  yourselves,"  says  Leslie  calmly.  "  I  have  given 
you  all  my  money ;  my  husband  is  dead ;  my  little  step- 
daughter has  been  stolen,  or  worse,  and  I  have  been  accused 
of  the  crime." 

She  pauses  to  note  the  effect  of  her  words,  but  strangely 
enough,  Franz  Francoise  is  the  only  one  who  gives  the  least 
sign  of  surprise. 

"I  am  disinherited,"  continues  Leslie,  "cast  out  from  my 
home,  friendless  and  penniless.  You  have  claimed  me  as 
your  child,  and  I  have  come  to  you." 

Still  she  is  closely  studying  the  faces  of  the  elder  Fran- 
coises, and  she  does  not  note  the  intent  eyes  that  are,  in  turn, 
studying  her  own  countenance :  the  eyes  of  Franz  Francoise. 

The  two  old  plotters  look  at  each  other,  and  then  turn  away. 
Rage,  chagrin,  baffled  expectation,  speak  in  the  looks  they  in- 
terchange. Franz  is  the  first  to  relapse  into  indifference  and 
stolidity. 

"But,  my  girl,"  Papa  begins,  excitedly,  "this  can't  be! 
You  are  a  widow — ah,  yes,  poor  child,  we  know  that.  But, 
my  dear,  a  widow  has  rights.  The  law,  my  child,  the  law — " 

"You  mistake,"  says  Leslie  coldly,  "the  law  will  do  noth- 
ing for  me." 

"But  it  must,"  argues  Papa.  "They  can't  keep  you  out  o' 
your  rights.  The  law — " 

Leslie  rises  and  turns  to  face  him,  cutting  short  his  speech 
by  a  gesture. 

"There  is  a  higher  law  than  that  made  by  man,"  she  says 
sternly;  "the  law  that  God  has  implanted  in  heart  and  con- 


302  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

science.  That  law  bids  me  renounce  all  claims  to  my  husband's 
wealth.  Understand  this  :  I  am  penniless.  There  is  but  one 
thing  that  could  induce  me  to  claim  and  use  what  the  law  will 
give  me." 

"And  what  is  that?"  asks  Papa,  in  a  wheedling  tone,  while 
Mamma  catches  her  breath  to  listen. 

"That,"  says  Leslie  slowly,  "is  the  restoration  of  little 
Daisy  Warburton." 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

AN  AFFECTIONATE  FAMILY. 

A  sudden  silence  has  fallen  upon  the  group,  and  as  Leslie's 
clear,  sad  eyes  rest  upon  first  one  face  and  then  the  other, 
Papa  begins  to  fidget  nervously. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  sighs,  "  we  heard  about  that." 

And  then  Mamma  comes  nearer,  saying  in  a  cat-like,  pur- 
ring tone:  "The  poor  little  dear!  And  you  can't  find  her?" 

As  she  speaks,  Franz  Francoise  shifts  his  position  carelessly, 
placing  himself  where  he  can  note  the  expressions  of  the  two 
old  faces. 

But  Leslie's  enforced  calmness  is  fast  deserting  her. 

"  Woman !"  she  cries  passionately,  "  drop  your  mask  of 
hypocrisy!  Let  us  understand  each  other.  I  believe  that 
you  were  in  my  house  on  the  night  of  that  wretched  masquer- 
ade. I  have  reasons  for  so  believing.  Ah,  I  recall  many 
words  that  have  fallen  from  your  lips,  now  that  it  is  too  late; 
words  that  condemn  you.  You  believed  that  with  Daisv  re- 


AN  AFFECTIONATE  FAMILY.  303 

moved,  I  would  become  my  husband's  sole  heiress;  and  you 
knew  that  at  best  his  life  would  be  short.  The  more  the 
money  in  my  possession,  the  more  you  could  extort  from  me. 
But  I  can  thwart  you  here,  and  I  will.  You  never  reckoned 
upon  my  throwing  away  my  claim  to  wealth,  for  you  were 
never  human;  you  never  loved  anything  but  money,  or  you 
would  have  pity  on  that  poor  little  child.  Give  me  back 
little  Daisy,  and  every  dollar  I  can  claim  shall  become 
yours !" 

Oh',  the  greed,  the  avarice,  that  shines  from  Mamma's  eyes ! 
But  Papa  makes  her  a  sign,  and  she  remains  silent,  while  he 
says,  with  his  best  imitation  of  gentleness : 

"But,  my  child ;  but,  Leschen,  how  can  we  find  the  little 
girl?" 

Leslie  turns  upon  him  a  look  of  contempt,  and  then  a  swift 
spasm  of  fear  crosses  her  face. 

"  Oh,"  she  cries,  clasping  her  hands  wildly,  "  surely,  surely 
you  have  not  killed  her !" 

And  now  Mamma  has  resumed  her  mask.  "  My  child," 
she  says,  coming  close  to  Leslie,  "  you're  excited.  "We  don't 
know  where  to  find  that  child.  What  can  we  do  ?" 

Back  to  Leslie's  face  comes  that  look  of  set  calm,  and  she 
sinks  upon  the  chair  she  had  lately  occupied. 

"  Do  your  worst !"  she  says  between  tightly  clenched  teeth. 
"  You  know  that  I  do  not,  that  I  never  shall,  believe  you. 
You  say  you  are  my  mother,"  flashing  two  blazing  eyes  upon 
Mamma,  "take  care  of  your  child,  then.  Make  of  me  a 
rag-picker,  if  you  like.  Henceforth  I  am  nothing,  nobody, 
save  the  daughter  of  the  Francoises  !" 

Again,  for  a  moment,  the  faces  that  regard  her  present  a 
gtudy,  And  this  time  it  is  Franz  who  is  the  first  to  speak, 


304  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Coming  forward  somewhat  unsteadily,  he  doffs  his  ragged  old 
cap,  and  extends  to  her  a  hand  not  overclean. 

"Partner,  shake!"  he  says  in  tones  of  marked  admiration. 
"  Ye're  clean  grit !  If  ye' re  my  sister,  I'm  proud  of  ye.  If  ye 
ain't,  and  ye  'pear  to  think  ye  ain't,  then  it's  my  loss,  an',"  with 
a  leer  at  the  old  pair,  "  yer  gain.  Anyhow,  I'm  yer  second 
in  this  young-un  business.  Ye  kin  stay  right  here,  ef  ye 
want  ter,  and,  by  thunder,  ef  the  old  uns  have  got  yer  little 
gal,  ye  shall  have  her  back  agin — ye  hear  me !  Ain't  ye  goin' 
ter  shake  ?  I  wish  yer  would.  I'm  a  rough  feller,  Missy ; 
I've  allers  been  a  hard  case,  and  I've  just  got  over  a  peniten- 
tiary stretch — ye'll  hear  o'  that  soon  enough,  ef  ye  stay  here. 
The  old  un  likes  to  remind  me  of  it  when  she  ain't  amiable. 
Never  mind  that ;  maybe  I  ain't  all  bad.  Anyway,  I'm  goin' 
to  stand  by  ye,  and  don't  ye  feel  oneasy." 

Again  he  extends  his  hand,  and  Leslie  looks  at  it,  and  then 
up  into  his  face. 

"Oh,  if  I  could  trust  you  !"  she  murmurs.  "  If  you  would 
help  me !" 

"I  Idn ;"  says  Franz  promptly,  "an'  I  will!" 

Again  she  hesitates,  looking  upon  the  uncouth  figure  and 
the  unwashed  hand.  Then  she  lifts  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

Two  eyes  are  looking  into  her  own,  eagerly,  intently,  full 
of  pitying  anxiety. 

She  rises  slowly,  looks  again  into  the  eager  eyes,  and  ex- 
tends her  hand. 

"  Gracious !"  he  exclaims,  as  he  releases  it,  "  how  nervous 
yer  are:  must  be  awful  tired." 

"Tired,  yes.     I  have  walked  all  the  way. 

"An*  say,  no  jokin'  now,  have  ye  come  ter  live  with 
us?" 


"Partner,  shake.    Y'ere  clean  grit!" — page  .304. 

305 


306  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  I  have/'  she  replies  firmly ;  "  unless,"  turning  a  contonaptu- 
ous  glance  toward  Manama  and  Papa,  "  my  parents  refuse  me 
a  shelter." 

It  is  probable  that  these  overtures  from  Franz  would  have 
been  promptly  interrupted,  had  not  Papa  and  Mamma,  seeing 
the  necessity  of  exchanging  a  few  words,  improved  this  oppor- 
tunity to  understand  each  other,  and  as  they  exchanged  ha.sty 
whispers,  any  vagueness  or  hiatus  in  their  speech  was  fully 
supplied  by  meaning  glances.  And  now  quite  up  in  her  role, 
Mamma  again  advances. 

"  My  child,"  she  begins,  in  a  dolorous  voice,  "  when  ye  know 
us  better,  ye'll  think  better  of  yer  poor  old  folks.  As  fer 
Franz  here,  he's  been  drinkin'  a  little  to-night,  but  he's  a 
good-hearted  boy;  don't  mind  him." 

"  No,"  interrupts  Franz,  with  a  maudlin  chuckle ;  "  don't 
mind  me" 

"It's  a  poor  home  yer  come  to,  Leschen,"  continues 
Mamma,  "and  a  poor  bed  I  can  give  ye.  But  we  want  to  be 
good  to  ye,  dear,  an'  if  ye're  really  goin'  to  stay  with  us,  we'll 
try  an'  make  ye  as  comfortable  as  we  can." 

Leslie's  head  droops  lower  and  lower ;  she  pays  no  heed  to 
the  old  woman's  words. 

"Poor  child,  she  is  tired  out." 

Saying  this,  Mamma  takes  the  candle  from  the  table,  and 
goes  from  the  room  quickly,  thus  leaving  the  three  in  dark- 
ness. 

In  another  moment,  the  voice  of  Franz  breaks  out : 

"Ain't  there  another  glim  somewhere?" 

By  the  time  Mamma  returns,  a  feeble  light  is  sputtering 
upon  the  table,  and  Franz  is  awkwardly  trying  to  force  upon 
Leslie  some  refreshments  from  the  choice  supply  left  from 


THE  PRODIGAL  BECOMES  OBSTINATE.  307 

their  late  repast.  But  she'  refuses  all,  and  wearily  follows 
Mamma  from  the  room. 

"Git  yer  rest  now,"  says  Franz  as  she  goes;  "to-morrow 
we'll  talk  over  this  young-un  business." 

But  when  the  morrow  comes,  and  for  many  days  after, 
Leslie  Warburton  is  oblivious  to  all  things  earthly. 


CHAPTER  XUII. 

THE  PRODIGAL  BECOMES  OBSTINATE. 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  Leslie  and  the  old  woman, 
Franz  Francoise  dropped  his  chin  upon  his  breast,  and  lean- 
ing his  broad  shoulders  against  the  door-frame,  stood  think- 
ing, or  half  asleep,  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  guess  which ; 
while  Papa  began  a  slow,  cat-like  promenade  up  and  down 
the  room,  paying  no  heed  to  Franz  or  his  occupation,  and 
thinking,  beyond  a  doubt. 

After  a  little,  Franz,  arousing  himself  with  a  yawn,  stag- 
gered to  the  nearest  chair,  and  dropped  once  more  into  a  list- 
less attitude.  In  another  moment,  Mamma  reentered  the 
room. 

As  she  passed  him,  Franz  laid  a  detaining  hand  upon  her 
arm,  and  leering  up  into  her  face,  whispered  thickly : 

"I  say,  old  un,  ye  seem  ter  be  troubled  with  gals.  Don't 
ye  want  me  to  git  rid  o'  this  one  fer  ye?" 

A  moment  the  old  woman  pauses,  and  looks  down  at  her 
Prodigal  in  silence.  Then  she  brings  her  hideous  face  close 
to  his  and  whispers : 


308  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  My  boy,  that  other  tin,  ef  we'd  a-kept  her,  ud  a-done  us 
hurt.  This  un,  ef  we  kin  keep  her,  will  make  all  our  for- 
tunes." 

"Honor  bright?"  drawls  Franz,  looking  up  at  her  sleepily, 
and  suppressing  a  yawn. 

"  Honor  bright,  my  boy." 

"  Then,"  and  he  rises  and  stretches  out  his  arms,  "  we'd  bet- 
ter keep  her." 

Mamma  favors  him  with  a  nod  and  a  grin  of  approval,  and 
then  goes  over  to  where  Papa  has  halted  and  stands  eyeing 
the  whisperers. 

The  household  belongings  here  are,  as  we  have  said,  some- 
what more  respectable  and  extensive  than  those  of  the  former 
nests  occupied  by  these  birds  of  passage.  There  were  several 
chairs;  a  quantity  of  crockery  and  cooking  utensils;  some 
decent  curtains  at  the  windows ;  and  a  couch,  somewhat  the 
worse  for  wear  and  not  remarkable  for  cleanliness,  in  this  room. 

Toward  this  couch  Franz  moves  with  a  shuffling  gait,  and 
flinging  himself  heavily  down  upon  it,  lie  settles  himself  to 
enjoy  a  quiet  nap,  paying  no  heed  to  Papa  and  Mamma,  who, 
standing  near  together,  are  watching  him  furtively.  It  is 
some  time  before  Franz  becomes  lost  in  dreamland.  He 
fidgets  and  mumbles  for  so  many  minutes  that  Mamma  be- 
comes impatient.  But  he  is  quiet  at  last. 

And  then  the  two  old  plotters,  withdrawing  themselves  to 
the  remotest  corner  of  the  room,  enter  into  n  conversation  or 
discussion,  which,  judging  from  their  rapid  ires: -dilutions,  their 
facial  expression,  and  the  occasional  sharp  hiss,  which  is  all 
that  could  have  been  heard  by  the  occupant  of  the  couch  were 
he  ever  so  broad  awake,  must  be  a  question  of  considerable 
importance^  and  one  that  admits  of  two  opinions, 


THE  PRODIGAL  BECOMES  OBSTINATE.  309 

For  more  than  an  hour  this  warm  discussion  continues. 
Then  it  seems  to  have  reached  an  amicable  adjustment,  for 
they  both  wear  a  look  of  relief,  and  conversation  flags.  Pres- 
ently Mamma  turns  her  face  toward  the  couch. 

"I  wonder  ef  he  is  asleep,"  she  whispers.  "Somehow,  that 
boy  bothers  me." 

"There's  nothin'ails  him,"  replies  the  old  man,  in  the  same 
guarded  whisper,  "only  what  he  come  honestly  by.  He's 
lookin'  out  fer  number  one,  same  as  we  are ;  an'  he  won't  trust 
all  his  secrets  to  nobody's  keeping  no  more'n  we  won't.  He's 
our  own  boy — only  he's  a  leetle  too  sharp  fer  my  likin'. 
Hows'ever,  he's  a  lad  to  be  proud  of,  an'  it  won't  do  to  fall 
out  with  him." 

"  Nobody  wants  to  fall  out  with  him,"  retorts  Mamma. 
"  He's  going  to  be  the  makin'  of  us,  only — mind  this — he  ain't 
to  know  too  much,  unless  we  want  him  to  be  our  master. 
Look  at  the  scamp,  a-layin'  there!  I'm  goin'  to  see  ef  he  is 
asleep." 

She  takes  the  candle  from  the  table,  snuffs  the  wick  into  a 
brighter  blaze,  and  moves  softly  toward  the  couch..  The 
Prodigal's  face  is  turned  upward.  Mamma  scans  it  closely, 
and  then  brings  the  candle  very  near  to  the  closed  eyes,  wav- 
ing it  to  and  fro  rapidly. 

There  is  no  slow  awakening  here.  The  two  hands  of  the 
sleeper,  which  have  rested  in  seeming  carelessness  loosely  at 
his  sides,  move  swiftly  and  simultaneously  with  his  body. 
And  Mamma's  only  consciousness  is  that  of  more  meteors  than 
could  by  any  possibility  emanate  from  one  candle,  and  a  sud- 
den shock  to  her  whole  frame.  She  is  sitting  upon  the  floor, 
clutching  wildly  at  the  candle,  while  Franz,  a  dangerous- 
looking  revolver  in  either  hand,  is  glaring  fiercely  about  him. 

And  all  this  in  scarce  ten  seconds  ! 


310  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  Wot's  up?"  queries  Franz  shortly,  "wot  the  dickens — " 

Papa  comes  forward,  chuckling  softly,  but  keeping  cautiously 
out  of  range  of  the  two  weapons.  And  Mamma  begins  to 
scramble  to  her  feet. 

"  Hullo !"  says  Franz,  as  he  seems  to  notice  Mamma's  posi- 
tion for  the  first  time;  "wot  ails  you?" 

Papa  is  so  amused  that  he  giggles  audibly ;  he  was  never 
heard  to  laugh  an  honest  laugh. 

"  Git  up,  old  lady,"  commands  Franz,  withdrawing  his  eyes 
from  Mamma;  and  he  stands  as  at  first,  until  she  has  risen. 

Then  he  glances  sharply  about  the  room,  and  asks  im- 
patiently :  "Come,  now,  what  have  ye  been  up  to  ?" 

"  Ye  see,  Franzy,"  begins  Mamma  in  a  conciliating  tone, 
"I  went  ter  take  a  look  at  ye — " 

"Oh,  ye  did!" 

"  With  the  candle  in  my  hand." 

"  Jest  so ;  an'  to  get  a  good  look,  ye  stuck  it  pretty  close  to 
my  eyes.  Wanted  to  see  ef  I  was  asleep,  or  playin'  possum, 
eh?  Wall,"  replacing  one  revolver  in  a  hip-pocket,  and 
trifling  carelessly  with  the  other,  while  he  seats  himself  upon 
the  couch,  "what  did  ye  find  out?" 

Though  his  tone  was  one  of  quiet  mockery,  there  was  an 
angry  gleam  in  his  eyes,  and  neither  Papa  nor  Mamma  ven- 
tured a  reply. 

"  I'll  tell  ye  what  ye  discovered,  an'  it  may  be  a  good  lesson 
fer  ye,"  he  goes  on  in  a  low  tone  that  was  full  of  fierce  in- 
tensity. "Ye  have  discovered  that  Franz  Francoise  asleep, 
and  the  same  feller  awake,  are  pretty  much  alike.  It's  jest  as 
onsafe  to  trifle  with  one  as  with  the  other.  I've  slept  nearly 
ten  years  o'  my  life  with  every  nerve  in  me  waitin'  fer  a  sign 
to  wake  quick  and  active.  I've  taught  myself  to  go  to  sleep 


"Mamma  brings  the  candle  very  near  to  the  closed  eyes,  waving  it  to 

and  fro,  rapidly."— page  809. 

oil 


312  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

always  with  the  same  idea  rtmniu'  in  ray  head.  An*  since  I 
got  out  o'  that  pen  down  there,  I'm  always  armed,  and  I'm 
always  ready.  The  brush  of  a  fly '11  wake  me,  and  it'll  take 
me  just  five  seconds  to  shoot.  So  when  ye  experiment  'round 
me  agin,  ye  want  to  fly  kinder  light.  And,  old  woman,  ye 
may  thank  yer  stars  that  ye  was  so  close  ter  me  that  ye  didn't 
come  in  for  nothin'  more'n  a  tumble." 

He  sits  quite  still  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  rising  slowly, 
goes  over  and  seats  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  table  near  which 
Papa  stands. 

"When  I  stowed  myself  away  over  there,"  resumes  Franz, 
"  I  was  more  or  less  muddled.  But  I'm  straight  enough  now, 
an'  my  head's  clear.  ,  I've  just  reckelected  about  that  gal's 
comin',  an' — I  say,  old  woman,  can  she  hear  us  if  she  happens 
to  be  awake?" 

"No,"  replies  Mamma,  "she  can't — not  unless  we  talk 
louder  than  we're  likely  to."- 

"  Then  haul  up  yer  stool.     We're  goin'  ter  settle  about  her." 

The  look  which  Mamma  casts  toward  her  worser  half  says, 
as  plainly  as  looks  can  speak  :  "It's  coming."  And  then  "she 
compresses  her  lips,  and  draws  a  chair  near  the  table,  while 
Papa  occupies  another,  and  Franz  looks  down  upon  the  pair' 
from  his  more  elevated  perch. 

"Now,  then,"  begins  Franz,  "Who's  that  'ere  gal?" 

No  answer  from  the  two  on  the  witness-stand.  They  ex- 
change glances,  and  remain  mute. 

"  Next,"  goes  on  Franz,  as  if  quite  content  with  their  silence, 
"  wot's  all  this  talk  about  child-stealin'  ?" 

Still  no  answer.  Franz  remains  tranquil  as  before,  and  by 
way  of  diversion  probably,  squints  along  the  shining  barrel 
of  his  six  shooter,  and  snaps  the  trigger  playfully. 


THE  PRODIGAL  BECOMES  OBSTINATE.  313 

"Have ye  got  that  gal's  young  un?"  he  asks,  still  seeming  to 
find  the  revolver  an  object  of  interest,  "  or  hain't  ye  ?"  Down 
comes  the  dangerous  weapon  upon  the  knee  of  its  owner,  and 
quite  by  accident,  of  course,  it  has  Papa's  head  directly  in  range. 

Seeing  which,  that  worthy  moves  quickly  aside  with  an  ex- 
clamation of  remonstrance.  But  Mamma  is  made  of  other 
stuff.  She  leans  forward  and  leers  up  into  the  face  of  her 
Prodigal. 

"  It  seems  ter  me,  youngster,"  she  sneers,  "  that  gal's  took 
a  strong  hold  on  yer  sympathies.  Ain't  ye  gettin'  terrible 
curious?" 

"May&e,"  retorts  Franz,  returning  her  gaze  with  interest; 
"an'  may6e,  now,  'taint  so  much  sympathy  as  ye  may  suppose. 
I  don't  think  sympathy  runs  in  this  'ere  family.  The  pint's 
right  here,  and  this  is  a  good  time  to  settle  it.  You  two's 
hung  outer  me  ter  stay  by  yer,  an'  strike  together  fer  luck,  but 
I'm  blessed  ef  I'm  goin'  ter  strike  in  ther  dark.  I'm  goin' 
ter  see  ter  the  bottom  o'  things,  er  let  'em  alone.  An'  afore 
we  drop  this,  I  want  these  'ere  questions  answered  :  Who  is 
that  gal,  an'  why  does  she  talk  about  bein'  your  gal?  Who  is 
the  young-un  she  talks  of,  an'  have  you  got  it  ?  I'm  goin' 
ter  know  yer  lay  afore  /  move." 

"  Franz,"  breaks  in  Papa  deprecatingly,  "jest  give  yer 
mother  a  chance.  Maybe  ye  won't  ride  sich  a  high  horse  when 
ye  hear  her  plans  fer  yer  good." 

And  then,  as  if  she  has  just  received  her  cue,  Mamma 
breaks  in: 

"Ah-h,  Franz,"  she  says  contemptuously,  "  I'm  disappinted 
in  ye!  Wot  were  ye  thinkin'  on,  ter  go  an'  weaken  afore  a 
slip  of  a  gal  like  that,  talkin'  such  chicken  talk,  an'  goin'  back 

on  yer  old  mother!" 

*14 


Si  4  DANGEROUS  GROtfND. 

"  I  thought  ye  said  ye'd  got  ter  hang  onto  that  gal,  an'  she'd 
make  all  our  fortin's,"  comments  Franz. 

"  An?  so  I  did." 

"  Well,"  and  he  favors  her,  with  a  knowing  leer,  "if  that's  a 
fact,  somebody  needs  ter  git  inter  her  good  books,  an'  she  don't 
'pear  tc  take  much  stock  in  you  two." 

He  points  this  sentence  with  a  wink  at  Papa.  And  this 
gentleman,  seeming  to  see  his  son's  gallantry  in  a  new  light, 
indulges  in  one  of  his  giggles.  Even  Mamma  grins  visibly 
as  she  leans  forward  and  pats  him  on  his  knee. 

"  Ah,  you  sly  dog,  ah-h !  Look  what  luck's  throwed  in  our 
way,  my  boy !  Ye're  bound  ter  be  rich,  if  ye  jest  listen  to 
yer  mother." 

"  It'll  take  a  power  o'  listenin'  unless  yer  git  down  ter  busi- 
ness. An'  now,  once  more,  wot  does  the  gal  mean  by  talkin' 
about  a  child  that's  stole?" 

"  Never  mind  the  young  un,  boy,"  replies  Mamma,  her  face 
hardening  again ;  "how  do  ye  like  the  gal?" 

"  Like  the  gal  ?     Wot's  that  got  ter  do  with  it  ?" 

"  Listen,  Franz,"  and  Mamma  bends  forward  with  uplifted 
forefinger;  "I'll  explain  all  that  needs  explainin'  by  an  by. 
S'pose  it  should  turn  out  as  that  gal,  that's  come  here  and 
throwed  herself  into  our  hands,  should  fall  heir  to — well,  to 
a  pile  o'  money.  What  would  you  be  willin'  to  do  ter*  git  the 
heft  of  it?" 

"Most  anything,"  replies  Franz  coolly,  and  letting  his  eyes 
drop  to  the  weapon  in  his  hand.  "I  shouldn't  'weaken,'  nor 
play  '  chicken,'  old  un.  But  I'd  want  ter  see  the  fortin' 
ahead." 

"  Hear  the  boy !"  chuckles  Mamma  in  delight.  "  But  we 
don't  want  none  o'  that,"  nodding  toward  the  revolver.  "  It's 


THE  PEODlGAL  BECOMES  OBSTINATE.  3l5 

a  live  gal  ye  want."  Then  leaning  forward,  she  whispers 
sharply  :  "  You  have  got  ter  marry  the  gal !" 

Franz  stares  at  his  mother  for  full  ten  seconds.  Then 
slowly  lowering  first  one  leg  and  next  the  other,  he  stands 
upon  his  feet,  and  embracing  himself  with  both  arms,  he  in- 
dulges in  what  appears  to  be  a  violent  fit  of  noiseless  laughter. 

"  Marry  the  gal !"  he  articulates  between  these  spasms. 
"Oh,  gimmini !  won't  she  be  delighted  !" 

"Delighted  or  not,"  snarls  Mamma,  considerably  annoyed 
by  this  levity  on  the  part  of  her  Prodigal,  "  she'll  be  brought 
to  consent." 

But  the  spasm  has  passed.  Franz  resumes  his  position  on 
the  table,  and  looks  at  Mamma,  this  time  with  the  utmost 
gravity,  while  he  says: 

"  Look  here,  old  woman,  that's  a  gal  as  can't  be  drove.  Ye 
can't  force  her  ter  marry  yer  han'some  son.  An'  ye  can't  force 
yer  han'some  son  ter  marry  her — not  unless  he  sees  some  strong 
inducements.  An'  then,  ye  don't  expect  ter  make  a  prisoner 
o'  that  gal,  do  yer?  That  racket's  played  out,  'cept  in  the 
theatres.  I  don't  know  what  sent  her  here,  but  I'm  pretty 
sure  she'll  be  satisfied  with  a  short  visit." 

"Franz,"  remonstrates  Mamma,  "listen  to  me.  That  gal, 
the  minit  we  step  for'ard  an'  prove  her  identity,  is  goin'  to  come 
into  a  fortin'  as  big  as  a  silver  mine.  And  we  shan't  prove 
her  identity — till  she's  married  ter  you." 

Suddenly  the  manner  of  the  Prodigal,  which  has  presented 
thus  far  a  mixture  of  incredulity  and  indifference,  changes  to 
fierce  anger.  Again  he  comes  down  upon  his  feet,  this  time 
with  a  quick  spring  that  causes  Papa  to  start  and  tremble  once 
more. 

"  Now,  you  listen/'  he  says  sharply.     "  The  quicker  yer 


316  bANGE&OtlS  GfiOUKD. 

stop  this  fool  business,  the  better  it'll  be  fer  yer  plans.  Who's 
that  gal,  I  say?  How  did  she  git  inter  yer  clutches? 
What's  this  fortin',  and  where's  it  comiii'  from?  When 
ye've  answered  these  'ere  questions,  ye  kin  talk  ter  me  ;  not 
afore." 

"  Jest  trust  us  fer  that,  Franzy,"  says  Papa  softly. 

"Not  any!  Then  here's  another  thing:  how  are  ye  goin* 
ter  git  that  gal's  consent?" 

"Trust  us  fer  that,  too," says  Mamma, in  atone  betokening 
rising  anger.  "We  know  how  ter  manage  her." 

"  An'  that  means  that  ye've  got  her  young  un !  Now  look 
here,  both  on  ye.  Do  you  take  me  fer  a  stool-pigeon,  to  go 
into  such  a  deal  with  my  eyes  blinded?  Satisfy  me  about  the 
gal,  an'  her  right  to  a  fortin',  an'  let  me  in  to  the  young  un 
deal,  an'  I'm  with  ye.  I  don't  go  it  blind." 

And  now  it  is  Mamma's  turn.  She  bounds  up,  confronting 
her  Prodigal,  with  wrath  blazing  in  her  wicked  eyes. 

Papa  turns  away  and  groaus  dismally:  "Oh,  Lord,  they're 
goin'  to  quarrel !" 

"  Look  here,  Franz  Francoise,"  begins  Mamma,  in  a  shrill 
half  whisper,  "ye  don't  want  ter  go  too  fur !  I  ain't  a-goin' 
ter  put  all  the  power  inter  yer  hands.  If  this  business  ain't 
worth  somethin'  to  me,  it  shan't  be  to  you.  I  kin  soon  satisfy 
ye  on  one  pint :  the  gal  ain't  my  gal,  but  she  came  honest  into 
my  hands.  I'm  willin'  ter  tell  ye  all  about  the  gal,- an'  her 
fortune,  but  ye  kin  let  out  the  young-un  business.  That's 
my  affair,  and  I'll  attend  to  it  in  my  own  way.  Xow,  then, 
if  I'll  tell  ye  about  the  gal,  prove  that  there's  money  in  it,  and 
git  her  consent,  will  ye  marry  her  an' — " 

"  Whack  up  with  ye  afterwards  ?"  drawls  Franz,  all  trace 
of  anger  having  disappeared  from  his  face  and  manner.  "  Old 


'Look  here,  Fraoz  Francoise,  ye  don't  want  to  go  too  far  ["—page  316. 

317 


318  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

woman,  I'll  put  it  in  my  pipe  an'  smoke  it.    Ye  kin  consider 
this  confab  ended." 

Turning  upon  his  heel  he  goes  back  to  the  couch,  drops 
down  upon  it  with  a  yawn,  and  composes  himself  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

ME.  FOLLINGSBEE'S  VICTORY. 

When  Alan  Warburton  reached  the  residence  of  Mr.  Fol- 
lingsbee,  he  found  that  legal  gentleman  sitting  alone  in  his 
cosy  library,  very  much,  so  Alan  thought,  as  if  expecting  him. 
And  the  first  words  that  the  lawyer  uttered  confirmed  this 
opinion. 

Rising  quickly,  Mr.  Follingsbee  came  forward  to  meet  his 
guest,  saying  briskly : 

"  Ah,  Warburton,  good  evening.  I've  been  expecting  you ; 
sit  down,  sit  down." 

As  Alan  placed  his  hat  upon  the  table  beside  him,  and  took 
the  seat  indicated,  he  said,  with  a  well-bred  stare  of  surprise: 

"  You  expected  me,  Mr.  Follingsbee  ?  Then  possibly  you 
know  my  errand?" 

"  Well,  yes ;  in  part,  at  least."  The  lawyer  took  up  a  folded 
note,  and  passed  it  across  the  table  to  his  visitor,  saying:  "It 
was  left  in  my  care  about  two  hours  ago." 

Alan  glanced  up  at  him  quickly,  and  then  turned  his  at- 
tention to  the  perusal  of  the  note.  It  ran  thus  : 

ALAN  WARBURTON: 

The  time  has  come,  or  will  soon  come,  when  Mrs.  W —  will  find  it 
necessary  to  confide  ber  troubles  to  Mr.  Follingsbee.     The  time  is  also, 


ME.  FOLLINGSBEE'S  VICTORY.  319 

ne«r  when  you  will  have  to  fight  Van  Vernet  face  to  face.  You  will 
do  well  to  trust  your  case  to  Mr.  Follingsbee,  relying  upon  him  in  every 
particular.  You  will  have  to  meet  strategy  with  strategy,  if  you  would 
outwit  Vernet.  A  FRIEND. 

Alan  perused  this  slowly,  noting  that  the  handwriting  was 
identical  with  that  of  the  scrap  left  by  the  "  organ-grinder," 
and  then  he  refolded  it,  saying: 

"  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  missive  for  you,  Mr.  Follingsbee ; 
but  first,  let  me  ask  if  I  may  know  who  sent  me  this  mes- 
sage?" 

"  It  was  left  in  my  hands,"  replied  the  lawyer,  smiling 
slightly,  "  by — by  a  person  with  ragged  garments,  and  a  dirty 
face.  He  appeared  to  be  a  deaf  mute,  and  looked  like — " 

"Like  an  organ-grinder  minus  his  organ  ?"  finished  Alan. 

"Just,  so." 

"  I  trust  that  this  will  explain  itself,"  said  Alan,  drawing 
forth  from  an  inner  pocket  Leslie's  letter,  and  giving  it  into 
the  lawyer's  hand.  "  Read  it,  Mr.  Follingsbee.  This  day 
has  been  steeped  in  mystery;  let  us  clear  away  such  clouds  as 
we  can." 

"  From  Leslie !"  Mr.  Follingsbee  said,  elevating  his  eye- 
brows. "  This  is  an  unexpected  part  of  the  programme." 

"  Indeed  ?  And  yet  this, — "  and  Alan  tapped  the  note  he 
had  just  received,  with  one  long,  white  forefinger, — "this  fore- 
tells it." 

"  Ah !"  Only  this  monosyllable;  then  Mr.  Follingsbee  broke 
the  seal  of  Leslie's  letter  and  began  its  perusal,  his  face  grow- 
ing graver  and  more  troubled  as  he  read. 

It  was  a  long  letter,  and  he  read  it  slowly,  turning  back  a 
page  sometimes  to  re-read  a  certain  passage.  Finally  he  laid 
the  letter  upon  his  knee,  and  sat  quite  still,  with  his  hands. 


320  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

working  together  nervously  and  his  brow  wrinkled  in  thought. 
At  last  he  lifted  his  eyes  toward  Alan. 

"  Do  you  know  what  this  letter  contains  ?"  he  asked 
slowly. 

"  I  know  that  my  sister-in-law  has  left  her  home/'  Alan 
replied  gravely;  "nothing  more." 

"Nothing  more?" 

"Nothing;  really.  She  left  three  letters:  one  for  Mrs. 
French,  another  for  Miss  French,  and  the  third  for  yourself." 

"And  you     .     .     .     She  left  you  some  message?" 

"Not  a  word,  verbal  or  written." 

"  Strange,"  mused  the  lawyer,  taking  up  his  letter  and 
again  glancing  through  its  pages.  "  I  can't  understand  it. 
Mr.  Warburton — pardon  the  question — was  there  any  differ- 
ence, any  misunderstanding,  between  you  and  Leslie?" 

"Does  not  the  letter  itself  explain ?" 

"That  is  what  puzzles  me.  The  letter  tells  her  own  story 
— a  story  that  I  knew  before,  in  part  at  least;  a  sad  story, 
proving  to  me  that  the  girl  has  been  made  to  suffer  bitterly ; 
but  it  does  not,  from  first  to  last,  mention  your  name." 

Alan  sat  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  turned  his  face  to- 
ward  the  lawyer,  as  if  acting  upon  some  resolve. 

"Yesterday,"  he  began  quietly,  "I  held  an  interview  with 
my  sister-in-law.  It  was  not  an  amicable  interview;  we  have 
been  on  unfriendly  terms  since — since  the  night  of  the  mas- 
querade." 

"Since  the  masquerade?" 

"  During  that  interview,"  continued  Alan,  " Mrs.  "Warbur- 
toir  gave  me  the  brief  outline  of  what  seemed  to  me  a  very  im  - 
probable  story." 

"Ah  !"  There  was  a  new  shade  in  the  lawyer's  voice, 


ME.  FOLLINGSBEE'S  VICTORY.  321 

"  And  I. am  wondering,"  Alan  goes  on,  "  if  your  letter  con- 
tains that  same  story." 

"Possibly/'  said  Mr.  Follingsbee  dryly. 

"This  note  which  you  have  given  me,  and  which  bears  no 
signature,  seems  to  indicate  as  much.  Are  you  acquainted 
with  its  contents,  sir?" 

"  I  am  not."  There  is  a  growing  crispness  in  the  lawyer's 
tone,  which  Alan  is  not  slow  to  note. 

"Then  oblige  me  by  reading  it." 

Mr.  Follingsbee  took  the  note  and  read  it  slowly. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  he  said,  looking  up  from  its  perusal, 
"  that  we  had  better  begin  by  understanding  each  other  ?" 

"I  do." 

"  Very  good :  this  note  was  left  with  me  by — by  such  a 
man  as  I  described  to  you." 

"  By  a  man  in  disguise?" 

"  Just  so.  This — this  man  in  disguise,  came  to  me  in  your 
behalf." 

"  In  my  behalf !"  exclaimed  Alan,  in  amazement. 

"  In  your  behalf.  He  told  me  you  were  in  danger,  and 
that  the  man  you  had  most  cause  to  fear  was  a  certain  detective : 
Van  Yernet." 

Alan  Warburton  stirred  uneasily  in  his  chair,  and  the  old 
haughty  look  came  slowly  into  his  face. 

"  He  said,"  went  on  the  lawyer  slowly,  "  that  because  of 
your  pride,  and  your  obstinacy,  you  were  involving  not  only 
yourself  but  others,  in  a  net  that  might,  if  your  present  course 
continued,  ruin  you  utterly,  and  bring  upon  your  cherished 
family  honor  a  disagreeable  blot,  if  not  absolute  disgrace.  He 
did  not  give  me  an  idea  of  the  nature  of  the  difference  between 
yourself  and  this  Vernet.  but  he  laid  out  a  very  pretty  plan 

21 


322  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

by  which  to  baffle  him.  And  he  said,  as  he  went  away :  '  If 
Alan  Warburton,  under  all  his  pride  and  obstinate  clinging 
to  a  wrong  idea,  possesses  the  sound  judgment  that  I  believe 
him  to  have — and  it's  a  pity  he  has  not  made  better  use  of  it, — 
he  will  confide  in  you,  and  act  upon  your  advice,  if  not  upon 
mine.  Let  him  do  this  and  we  will  baffle  Vernet,  and  his 
precious  secret  will  not  be  dragged  to  the  light.  Let  him  con- 
tinue in  his  present  course,  and  Van  Vernet  will  have  his 
hand  upon  him  within  a  week ;  the  aflFair  of  this  afternoon 
should  convince  him  of  this.' ': 

During  this  remarkable  speech,  Alan's  face  had  taken  on  a 
variety  of  expressions.  At  the  closing  sentence  he  gave  a 
quick  start,  and  then  sat  perfectly  still,  with  his  profile  to- 
ward his  companion.  After  a  time  he  turned  his  face  toward 
the  lawyer;  and  that  personage,  looking  anxiously  for  a  reply 
or  comment,  could  read  upon  the  handsome  countenance  only 
calm  resolve  and  perfect  self-control. 

"Mr.  Follingsbee,"  he  began  gravely,  "do  you  understand 
this  allusion  to  the  events  of  the  afternoon  ?" 

"1  do  not." 

"And  yet  you  have  confidence  in  this  disguised  stranger?" 

"Have  I  alluded  to  him  as  a  stranger,  sir?" 

Alan  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow,  and  said  slowly: 

"  He  is  not  a  stranger  to  you  and,  evidently,  he  knows  me 
remarkably  well ;  I  might  say  too  well." 

"Ahem!  You  would  be  likely  to  recall  your  words,  if  you 
did." 

"  Mr.  Follingsbee,  who  is  this  man  ?" 

"  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  speak  his  name." 

"  What  is  he,  then?" 

"  First  of  all,  a  gentleman  •  a  man  whose  championship  does 


ME.  FOLLINGSBEE'S  VICTORY.  323 

you  honor,  for  it  proves  that  he  believes  in  you,  in  spite  of 
this  Van  Vernet." 

"Was  it  not  a  strange  freak  for  this  gentleman,  disguised 
just  as  he  afterward  came  to  you,  to  enter  my  study  window, 
and  conceal  himself  in  my  cabinet?" 

Mr.  Follingsbee  looked  up  with  lively  interest.  "  Did  he 
do  that  ?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"He  did  that." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Follingsbee  slowly,  "  I  should  say  that 
it  was  quite  like  him.  He  did  not  talk  of  his  own  exploits 
when  he  came  to  me;  I  fancy  his  time  was  limited." 

"Probably;  now,  Mr.  Follingsbee,  I  think  I  see  things, 
some  things,  in  a  clearer  light.  This  organ-grinder  of  mine, 
this  gentleman  of  yours,  this  anonymous  friend,  is  a  detective  !" 

"Umph!"  mutters  the  lawyer,  half  to  himself,  "we  are 
beginning  to  use  our  wits."  Then  in  a  louder  tone  :  "  Ah,  so 
we  are  no  longer  lawyer  and  witness?" 

"No,"  with  a  quiet  smile;  "we  are  two  lawyers.  Let  us 
remain  such." 

"AVith  all  my  heart,"  cries  Mr.  .Follingsbee,  extending  his 
hand;  "let  us  remain  such." 

Alan  takes  the  proffered  hand,  and  begins  again. 

"  This  champion  of  mine,  then,  is  a  detective  ;  you  admit 
that  ?" 

" 


—  yes. 

"  In  espousing  my  cause,  he  is  making  active  war  upon  V^an 
Vernet?" 

"  So  it  appears." 

"Then  it  is  safe  to  say  that  aside  from  the  interest  he  has 
seen  fit  to  take  in  —  in  my  family  and  family  affairs,  he  has 
some  personal  issue  with  Mr.  Vernet." 

"Possibly." 


324  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  Then, — how  fast  we  progress— our  detective  friend  must 
be  a  remarkably  clever  fellow,  or  our  chances  are  very  slender. 
Mr.  Veruet  is  called  one  of  the  ablest  detectives  on  the  city 
force." 

"True." 

"Mr.  Follingsbee,  have  you  faith  in  the  ability  of  this 
champion-detective  to  cope  with  such  a  man  as  Vernet  ?" 

""Well,"  says  the  elder  gentleman  slowly,  "if  you  play  your 
part,  I'll  vouch  for  my  friend.  He  is  at  least  a  match  for 
Vernet." 

"  Then  I  think  it  would  not  be  a  difficult  matter  to  identify 
him." 

"Don't  waste  your  time,"  interrupts  Mr.  Follingsbee 
quickly  ;  "  I  have  told  you  all  that  I  am  at  liberty  to  tell." 

"  As  you  please ;  but  before  I  begin  my  story,  I  must  be 
sure  that  it  is  the  story.  Yesterday.,  as  I  told  you,  I  had  an 
interview  with  my  sister-in-law." 

"Yes." 

"  I  had  observed  some  things  that  puzzled  me,  and— does 
that  letter  of  Leslie's  contain  any  statements  concerning  her 
early  life?"  He  breaks  off  abruptly. 

"  It  does ;  many  statements." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  her  early  history  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Is  she  the  daughter  of  Thomas  Uliman  ?" 

"  His  adopted  daughter  ;  yes." 

"  And  are  her  parents  living  ?" 

"  Two  people  who  claim  to  be  her  parents  are  in  this  city. 
I  may  as  well  say  to  you  now,  Mr.  Warburton,  that  Leslie 
never  knew  herself  to  be  an  adopted  child  until  shortly  before 
her  marriage;  that  she  discovered  it  by  accident,  and  came 


MR.  FOLLINGSBEE'S  VICTORY.  325 

straight  to  me  with  the  news,  which  I  had  known  all  along. 
Then  she  told  the  truth  to  your  brother,  and  knowing  the 
height,  depth,  and  absurdity  of  the  Warburton  pride,  offered 
to  release  him  from  his  engagement.  He  refused  this  release 
and  bade  her  never  mention  the  subject  again." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  seeing  that  Alan  was  regarding 
him  with  steadfast  earnestness,  resumed  : 

"  I  supposed  that  the  end  of  the  affair,  and  from  that  day 
to  this  have  never  heard  a  word  on  the  subject  from  Leslie,  or 
from  any  one,  until  you  brought  me  this  letter.  And  now, 
as  I  have  gone  thus  far  into  the  matter,  let  me  tell  you  what 
I  have  learned  from  this  letter — not  as  Leslie  has  written  it, 
but  briefly  as  possible.  Shortly  before  her  marriage,  two  people, 
asserting  themselves  to  be  the  two  who  gave  Leslie  to  the 
Ulimans,  came  and  claimed  her  as  their  child.  They  were  so 
repulsive,  clamorous,  and  so  evidently  greedy  for  money,  that 
Leslie  could  not,  would  not,  credit  their  story.  Here  she 
made  her  first  mistake.  She  bribed  these  old  wretches  with  a 
good  slice  of  her  little  fortune,  instead  of  turning  them  and 
their  claim  over  to  me.  They  promised  to  go  away,  of  course, 
and  never  trouble  her  again,  and  also  of  course,  they  did  not 
keep  their  word.  As  soon  as  she  was  married  to  your  brother, 
they  became  bolder ;  and  she  was  more  than  ever  in  their 
power.  She  dared  not  confide  in  her  husband  ;  first,  because 
of  his  pride,  which  was  only  a  little  less  than  yours,  and  next, 
because  she  feared  the  effect  of  such  a  revelation  upon  a  con- 
stitution so  frail,  and  a  mind  so  sensitive.  It  was  too  late, 
she  thought,  to  come  to  me  ;  and  so  it  went  on.  They  drained 
her  private  purse  to  the  last  dollar ;  they  compelled  her  to 
come  at  their  summons  at  any  time,  and  she  had  to  creep  from 
her  home  like  a  guilty  thing  to  carry  hush-money  to  these 


326  DANGEROUS 

wretches.  And  so  things  continued  until,  in  order  to  satisfy 
their  greed,  she  must  begin  to  fee  them  with  her  husband's 
money.  Think  of  that,  sir,"  casting  an  ironical  glance  at  his 
vis-a-vis;  "feeing  those  common  clods  with  the  Warburton 
gold." 

But  Alan  never  noted  this  home-thrust.  He  sat  quite  still, 
with  a  troubled  look  upon  his  face ;  seeing  which,  Mr.  Fol- 
lingsbee  continued: 

"This  she  firmly  resolved  that  she  would  never  do ;  and 
then  came  that  masquerade." 

"  Ah !"  Alan  starts  as  he  involuntarily  utters  the  ejacula- 
tion, but  controls  himself  instantly,  and  says:  "Go  on, 
please." 

"That  night  they  sent  her  a  note,"  continues  Mr.  Follings- 
bee.  "  It  came  when  she  was  in  the  midst  of  her  guests  ;  and 
it  was  so  urgent  in  its  demands  that  she  grew  desperate,  threw 
off  her  festive  garments,  and  went,  alone,  in  the  night,  to  the 
hovel  where  these  old  impostors  lived.  She  went  to  defy 
them,  and  she  found  herself  entrapped." 

"Entrapped?" 

"  Yes;  while  she  talked,  she  was  seized  by  two  persons  who 
crept  upon  her  from  behind.  She  does  not  understand  their 
actual  object;  they  seemed  trying  to  secure  the  jewels  which 
she  had  forgotten  to  remove  from  her  ears.  Just  here  she  is 
not  very  definite;  I  will  read  the  passage  to  you." 

He  takes  up  the  letter,  searches  out  the  lines  referred  to, 
and  reads : 

I  can  scarcely  describe  the  rest.  It  is  sufficient  that  a  brave  man 
rescued  me— at  what  a  fearful  cost  to  himself,  I  only  learned  afterward. 
I  escaped  from  the  hovel,  and  reached  my  home.  You  know  the  rest: 
how  Daisy  vanished,  and  all  the  sorrow  since.  And  now  I  tell  you  that 
I  believe  these  two  have  stolen  Daisy. 


JCR.  FOLLJNGSBEE'S  VICTORY.  32t 

Here  he  breaks  off  abruptly.  "The  rest  is  a  mixture  of 
business  affairs  and  hurried  directions  how  to  dispose  of  her 
property  should  she  be  long  absent,  or  should  she  never  return, 
etc.  At  the  close  she  says,  that  on  the  night  of  her  adventure 
at  the  hovel,  and  during  the  affray,  a  man  was  killed ;  and 
that  either  herself  or  her  brave  rescuer,  she  is  informed,  is 
likely  to  be  arrested  for  that  crime;  and  in  case  of  the  arrest 
of  either,  the  other  will  be  compelled  to  testify  for  or  against" 

"And  her  motive  for  now  quitting  her  home  so  suddenly?" 

"Of  that  she  says  very  little;  merely  that  she  is  leaving, 
and  that  she  hopes  J  will  continue  my  confidence  in  her." 

"Which  you  do?" 

"Which  I  do." 

For  many  moments  Alan  Warburton  sat  with  his  head 
bowed,  and  his  face  pale  and  troubled,  saying  nothing.  Then 
he  roused  himself,  and  turned  towards  his  companion. 

"Mr.  Follingsbee,"  he  said,  very  gravely,  "if  this  story — 
a  part  of  which  you  have  told  me,  the  rest  being  contained  in 
that  letter — is  true ;  if  Leslie  "Warburton  has  been  a  martyr 
throughout  this  affair,  then  I  am  a  most  contemptible  scoun- 
drel!" 

"You!"  ejaculated  the  old  gentleman  testily;  "you  a 
scoundrel!  Good  heavens,  has  everybody  gone  into  high 
dramatics?  What  have  you  done?" 

"I  have  accused  Leslie  of  receiving  a  lover  in  her  own 
house;  of  going  from  her  home  to  meet  him;  I  have  heaped 
upon  her  insult  after  insult;  I  have  driven  her  from  her  home 
by  my  cruel  accusations !" 

A  moment  Mr.  Follingsbee  sat  looking  as  if  about  to  pour 
forth  a  volume  of  wrath,  upon  the  head  of  his  self-accusing 
visitor;  then  he  said,  as  if  controlling  himself  by  an  effort; 


328  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"You  had  better  tell  the  whole  story,  young  man,  having 
begun  it." 

And  Alan  did  tell  the  whole  story  ;  honestly,  frankly  and 
without  sparing  himself.  He  began  at  the  beginning,  telling 
how,  at  the  first,  Leslie's  youth,  beauty  and  vivacity,  together 
with  a  certain  disparity  of  years  between  herself  and  husband, 
had  caused  him  to  doubt  her  affection  for  his  brother,  and  to 
suspect  a  mercenary  marriage;  how  he  had  discovered  her 
sending  away  notes  by  stealth;  how  his  suspicions  had  grown 
and  strengthened  until,  on  the  night  of  the  masquerade,  he 
had  set  Van  Vernet  to  watch  her  movements;  and  how  Ver- 
net  had  discovered,  or  claimed  to  discover,  a  lover  in  the  per- 
son of  a  certain  Goddess  of  Liberty. 

At  this  point  in  his  narrative,  Alan  was  surprised  to  note 
certain  unmistakable  signs  of  levity  in  the  face  and  manner 
of  Mr.  Follingsbee;  and  presently  that  gentleman  broke  in: 

"Wait;  just  wait.  Let's  clear  up  that  point,  once  and  for 
all.  -That ( Goddess'  was  introduced  into  your  house  by  me, 
and  for  a  purpose  which,  to  me,  seemed  good.  Until  that 
night  he  had  never  seen  Leslie  Warburton." 

"He!  then  it  was  a  man?" 

"It  was;  and  Van  Vernet,  as  I  have  since  learned,  knew 
him  and  laid  a  trap  for  him.  Their  feud  dates  from  that 
night." 

"  Ah,  then  our  detective  and  the  '  Goddess  of  Liberty' — " 

"Are  the  same.     Now  resume,  please." 

Going  back  to  his  story,  Alan  tells  how  he  had  followed 
Leslie;  how  he  had  rushed  in,  in  answer  to  her  cry  for  aid; 
how  he  had  rescued  her,  and  had  himself  been  rescued  in  turn 
by  a  pretended  idiot.  He  told  of  his  return  home;  his  in- 
terview with  Leslie  after  the  masquerade,  and  their  last  inter- 


MR.  POLLINGSBEE'S  VICTORY.  329 

view;  ending  with  the  scene  with  Vernet  and  the  organ- 
grinder. 

"That  fellow  is  the  mischief!"  said  Mr.  Follingsbee,  rub- 
bing his  palms  softly  together.  "He's  the  very  mischief!" 

"By  which  I  infer  that  my  ' Organ-grinder/  my  'Idiot/ 
and  the  'Goddess  of  Liberty/  are  one  and  the  same?" 

"Precisely ;  I  haven't  a  doubt  of  it." 

"And  that  the  three  are  identical  with  this  ( gentleman  de- 
tective/ who,  in  making  war  upon  Van  Vernet,  has  espoused 
my  cause,  or  rather  that  of  my  sister-in-law." 

"Just  so." 

Alan  leans  back  in  his  chair,  and  clutches  his  two  hands 
upon  its  either  arm,  fixing  his  eyes  on  vacancy.  Seeming  to 
forget  the  presence  of  his  vis-a-vis,  he  loses  himself  in  a  maze 
of  thoughts.  Evidently  they  are  not  pleasant  thoughts,  for 
his  face  expresses  much  of  perplexity,  doubt  and  disgust, 
finally  settling  into  a  look  of  stern  resolve. 

He  is  silent  so  long  that  Mr.  Follingsbee  grows  impatient, 
and  by  and  by  this  uneasiness  manifests  itself  in  a  series  of 
restless  movements.  At  last  Alan  turns  his  face  toward  the 
lawyer,  and  then  that  gentleman  bursts  out: 

"Well,  are  you  going  to  sit  there  all  night?  "What  shall 
you  do  next?" 

Alan  Warburton  rises  from  his  chair  and  faces  his  ques- 
tioner. "First,"  he  says  slowly,  "I  am  going  to  find  Leslie, 
and  bring  her  back." 

"Oh!" 

"You  look  incredulous;  very  well.  Still,  I  intend,  from 
this  moment,  to  take  an  active  part  in  this  mysterious  com- 
plication which  has  woven  itself  about  me." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  Vernet?" 


330  DANGEfcOttS  GROUND. 


"Not  at  all;  yet  it  is  my  duty  to  make  active  search  for 
Leslie.  Be  the  consequences  to  myself  what  they  may,  I  can 
remain  passive  no  longer." 

"Alan,  you  are  talking  nonsense.  Do  you  suppose  Vernet 
will  let  you  slip  now?  Don't  you  realize  that  if  you  are  to  be 
found  twenty-four  hours  from  this  moment,  you  will  be  under 
arrest." 

"  Nevertheless  —  " 

"Nevertheless,  you  will  persist  in  being  a  fool!  Sit  down 
there,  young  man,  and  tell  me,  haven't  you  been  playing  that 
role  long  enough  ?" 

A  hot  flush  rises  to  Alan's  brow,  and  an  angry  light  leaps 
for  a  moment  to  his  eyes  ;  but  he  resumes  his  seat  in  silence, 
and  turns  an  expectant  gaze  upon  Mr.  Follingsbee. 

"Now,  Warburton,"  resumes  the  little  lawyer  in  a  more 
kindly  tone,  "listen  to  reason.  I  had  a  long  talk  with  our 
unknown  friend  to-day;  not  so  long  as  I  could  have  wished, 
but  enough  to  convince  me  that  he  knows  what  he  is  about, 
and  that  if  you  follow  his  advice,  he  will  pull  you  through. 
Twice  he  has  saved  you  from  the  clutches  of  this  Vernet  ; 
leave  all  to  him,  and  he  will  rescue  you  again,  and 
finally." 

"He  has,  then,  mapped  out  my  course  for  me?"  queries 
Alan  haughtily. 

"He  hasy  if  it  suits  you  to  put  it  so.  Good  heavens!  man, 
it  needed  somebody  to  plan  for  you.  You  have  done  nothing 
but  blunder,  blunder,  blunder.  And  your  stupid  mistakes 
have  recoiled  upon  others.  I  tell  you,  sir  —  "  bringing  his 
fist  down  upon  the  table  with  noisy  emphasis  —  "  that  unless 
you  accept  the  advice  and  assistance  of  this  man,  whom  you 
seem  to  dislike  without  cause,  you  are  lost,  ruined,  at  least  in 


MR.  F OLLINGSBEE'S  VICTORY. 

your  own  estimation.  Confound  your  Warburton  pride!  It 
has  brought  you  into  a  pretty  scrape;  and  all  your  Warburton 
wit  won't  extricate  you  from  it.  Confound  you!  I'm  sick 
of  you,  sir !  If  it  were  not  for  Leslie,  and  little  Daisy,  Van- 
Veruet  might  have  you,  and  the  Warburton  honor  might  go 
to  the  dogs,  for  all  my  interference !" 

The  mention  of  little  Daisy  had  its  effect  upon  Alan.  As 
his  companion  waxed  wrathful,  his  own  mind  became  calmer; 
for  a  moment  he  seemed  to  see  himself  through  Mr.  Follings- 
bee's  spectacles.  And  then  he  said : 

"I  accept  your  rebuke,  for  I  may  have  deserved  it;  cer- 
tainly I  have  sufficient  reason  to  feel  humble.  My  unknown 
champion  took  pains  to  inform  me  that  he  did  not  serve  me 
for  my  own  sake ;  and  now  you  proffer  me  the  same  assurance. 
I  have  blundered  fearfully,  but  I  fail  to  see  what  influence  my 
conduct  could  have  upon  poor  Daisy's  fate." 

"Oh,  you  do!"  Mr.  Follingsbee  is  not  quite  mollified. 
"  Then  you  don't  see  that  Leslie  was  sorely  in  need  of  a  friend 
in  whom  she  could  confide — just  such  a  friend  as  she  might 
have  found  in  you,  had  you  been,  or  tried  to  be,  a  brother  to 
her,  instead  of  a  suspicious,  egotistical  enemy.  She  could  not 
take  her  troubles  to  Archibald,  but  she  might  have  trusted 
you — she  would  have  trusted  you,  had  your  conduct  been  what 
it  should." 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  that."  Alan  becomes  more  humble 
as  his  accuser  continues  to  ply  the  lash.  "What  you  say  may 
be  true.  Be  sure,  sir,  if  we  ever  find  Daisy  and  Leslie,  I 
shall  try  to  make  amends." 

"Umph!  Then  you  had  better  begin  now,  by  taking  good 
advice  when  it  is  offered." 

"What  do  you  advise,  then?" 


332  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  I  ?  nothing,  except  at  second  hand.  It  is  this  champion 
of  yours  who  advises." 

"Then  what  is  his  advice?" 

"He  says  that  you  must  quit  the  countiy  at  once." 

"  Impossible !" 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.  The  Clytie  sails  for  Liverpool  to- 
morrow. You  and  Leslie  have  taken  passage — " 

" Taken  passage !  Leslie!" 

"Just  so;  everything  has  been  arranged  by — "  He  pauses, 
then  says  :  "The  '  Organ-grinder."3 

"I  repeat,  it  is  impossible.  Do  you  think  I  will  leave  the 
country  while  little  Daisy's  fate  remains—" 

"Oh,  stop!  slop!  STOP!  Man,  are  you  determined  to  be 
an  idiot?  Will  you  hold  your  tongue  and  listen?" 

"  I  will  listen,  yes ;  but — " 

"But — bosh  !     Listen,  then,  and  don't  interrupt." 

He  lowers  his  voice,  not  from  fear  of  an  eavesdropper  but 
because,  having  gained  this  point,  his  impatience  begins  to  sub- 
side. And  Alan  listens,  while  for  more  than  an  hour  the  little 
lawyer  talks  and  gesticulates,  smiles  and  frowns.  He  listens 
intently,  with  growing  interest,  until  at  last  Mr.  Follingsbee 
leans  back  in  his  chair,  seeming  to  relax  every  muscle  in  so 
doing,  and  says: 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

Then  Alan  Warburton  rises  and  extends  his  hand  impul- 
sively. 

"I  thank  you  with  all  my  heart,  sir,  and  I  will  be  guided 
by  you,  and  by  our  unknown  friend.  From  this  moment,  I 
am  at  your  disposal." 

"  Umph  !''  grunts  the  lawyer,  as  he  grasps  the  proffered 
hand,  "  I  thought  your  senses  would  come  back," 


A  TRIP  TO  EUROPE.  333 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

• 

A  TRIP  TO  EUROPE. 

While  Alan  Warburton,  closeted  with  Mr.  Follingsbee,  was 
slowly  lowering  the  crest  of  the  Warburton  pride,  and  re- 
luctantly submitting  himself  to  the  mysterious  guidance  of  an 
unseen  hand, — Winnie  French,  sitting  beside  her  mother,  was 
perusing  Leslie's  note. 

It  was  brief  and  pathetic,  beseeching  Mrs.  French  to  go  at 
once  to  Warburton  place ;  to  dwell  there  as  its  mistress ;  to 
look  upon  it  as  her  home,  and  Winnie's,  until  such  time  as 
Leslie  should  return,  or  Mr.  Follingsbee  should  indicate  to 
her  a  change  of  plan.  Would  Mrs.  French  forgive  this  ap- 
pearance of  mystery,  and  believe  and  trust  in  her  still? 
Would  she  keep  her  home  open  for  Alan,  and  a  welcome  ever 
ready  for  the  lost  Daisy,  who  must  surely  return  some  day? 
Everything  could  be  arranged  with  Mr.  Folliugsbee ;  and 
Leslie's  love  and  gratitude  would  be  always  hers. 

This  note  was  somewhat  incoherent,  for  it  was  the  last 
written  by  Leslie,  and  her  nerves  had  been  taxed,  perhaps,  in 
the  writing  of  the  longer  epistle  to  Mr.  Follingsbee. 

Brief  and  fragmentary  as  it  was,  it  furnished  to  Winnie  and 
her  mother  food  for  much  wonderment,  long  discussion,  and 
sincere  sorrow. 

"Oh,  Mamma!"  cried  Winnie,  choking  back  a  sob,  "some 
terrible  trouble  has  come  upon  Leslie ;  and  Alan  Warburton 
is  at  the  bottom  of  it !" 

"My  child!" 


334  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"I  tell  you  he  is!"  vehemently.     "And  only  yesterday 
Leslie  would  have  told  me  all,  but  for  him." 

"Winnie,  compose  yourself;  try  and  be  calm,"  said  Mrs. 
French  soothingly. 

"I  can't  compose  myself!  I  won't  be  calm  !  I  want  to  be  so 
angry  when  Alan  Warburton  returns  for  me,  that  I  can  fairly 
scorch  him  with  my  contempt !  I  want  to  annihilate  him !" 
And  Winnie  flung  herself  upon  her  mother's  breast,  and -burst 
into  a  fit  of  hysterical  sobbing. 

Sorely  puzzled,  and  very  anxious,  Mrs.  French  soothed  her 
daughter  with  gentle,  motherly  words,  and  gradually  drew 
from  her  an  account  of  the  events  of  the  past  two  days,  as  they 
were  known  to  Winnie. 

"  And  so,  between  his  interruption  and  your  refusal  to  listen 
to  him  afterward,  you  are  quite  in  the  dark  as  to  this  strange 
misunderstanding  between  Leslie  and  Mr.  Warburton?"  said 
Mrs.  French  musingly. 

"  Misunderstanding !  You  give  it  a  mild  name,  Mamma. 
Would  a  mere  misunderstanding  with  any  one,  bring  such  a 
look  to  Leslie's  face  as  I  saw  there  when  I  left  her  alone  with 
him  ?  Would  it  leave  her  in  a  deathly  faint  at  its  close? 
Would  it  drive  her  from  her  home,  secretly,  like  a  fugitive  ? 
Would  it  cause  Alan  Warburton  to  address  such  words  to  me 
as  those  he  uttered  in  his  study?  Because  of  a  simple  mis- 
understanding, would  he  implore  me  to  judge  between  them  ? 
Mamma,  there  is  more  than  a  misunderstanding  at  the  bottom 
of  all  this  mystery.  Somewhere,  there  is  a  monstrous  wrong!" 

But  discuss  the  mystery  as  they  would,  there  seemed  no 
satisfactory,  no  rational  explanation.  The  evening  wore  on, 
and  the  ringing  of  the  door-bell  suddenly  apprised  them  of 
the  lateness  of  the  hour. 


A  TRIP  TO  EUROPE.  335 

"It's  Alan!"  exclaimed  Winnie,  starting  nervously. 
"Mamma,  we  can't,  we  won't,  go  with  him." 

But  it  was  not  Alan.  It  was  a  servant,  bearing  a  message 
from  Mr.  Follingsbee.  A  matter  of  importance  had  suddenly- 
called  Mr.  Warburton  away.  Mr.  Follingsbee  would  wait 
upon  the  ladies  in  the  morning. 

It  was  very  unsatisfactory,  but  it  was  all.  And  Winnie 
and  her  mother,  after  exhausting  for  a  second  time  their  stock 
of  conjectures,  were  constrained  to  lay  their  puzzled  heads 
npon  their  pillows,  and  to  await  in  restlessness  and  sleepless 
anxiety  the  coming  of  morning  and  Mr.  Follingsbee. 

It  comes  at  last,  the  morning,  as  morning  in  this  world  or 
another  surely  will  come  to  all  weary,  restless  watchers.  And 
just  as  it  is  approaching  that  point  of  time  when  we  cease 
to  say  "  this  morning,"  and  supply  its  place  with  "  to-day," 
Mr.  Follingsbee  comes  also. 

He  comes  looking  demure,  unhurried,  without  anxiety  ;  just 
as  he  always  does  look  whenever  he  has  occasion  to  withhold 
more  than  he  chooses  to  tell. 

"I  hope  you  have  not  been  anxious,  ladies,"  he  says, 
serenely,  as  he  deposits  his  hat  upon  a  table  and  extends  a  hand 
to  each  in  turn. 

But  Winnie's  impatience'  can  no  longer  be  held  in  check. 
"Oh,  Mr.  Follingsbee  !"  she  cries,  seizing  his  .hand  in  both 
her  own,  "  where  is  Leslie  ?" 

Mr.  Follingsbee  smiles  reassuringly,  places  a  chair  for  Mrs. 
French  with  old-time  gallantry,  leads  Winnie  to  a  sofa,  and 
seating  himself  beside  her,  says  his  say. 

To  begin  with,  the  ladies  must  not  expect  a  revelation  ;  not 
yet.  It  will  come,  of  course;  but  Mrs.  Warburton,  for 
reasons  that  seemed  to  her  good,  and  that  he  therefore  accepted, 


336  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

desired  to  keep  her  movements,  for  a  time,  a  secret.  There 
had  been  a  slight  misunderstanding  between  Mrs.  Warburton 
and  her  brother-in-law ;  but,  fortunately,  that  was  now,  in  a 
measure  at  least,  adjusted.  It  was,  in  part,  this  misunder- 
standing, and  in  part,  some  facts  which  Mrs.  Warburton 
thought  she  had  discovered  concerning  the  unaccountable  ab- 
sence of  Daisy  Warburton,  that  had  caused  her  to  adopt  her 
present  seemingly  strange  course.  It  was  owing  to  these  same 
causes  that  Mr.  Warburton  had  suddenly  determined  to  absent 
himself  from  the  city — in  fact  from  the  country.  Mr.  War- 
burton  had  taken  passage  in  the  Steamer  Clytie,  for  Europe. 
This  movement  might  seem  abrupt,  even  out  of  place  at  this 
particular  time,  but  it  was  not  an  unwarrantable  action ;  in- 
deed, it  was  a  thing  of  necessity. 

Mr.  Follingsbee  said  much  more  than  this,  and  ended  his 
discourse  thus : 

"  And  now,  ladies,  I  solicit,  on  behalf  of  my  clients,  your 
friendship,  your  aid^and  your  confidence.  While  I  am  not 
at  liberty  to  explain  matters  fully,  I  promise  you  that  you 
will  not  regret  having  given  your  confidence  blindly.  I,  who 
know  whereof  I  speak,  assure  you  of  this.  Alan  Warburton, 
while  at  this  moment  he  is  an  innocent  man,  is  menaced  by 
serious  danger.  Leslie  has  gone  on  a  Quixotic  mission.  The 
trouble  will  so'on  end,  I  trust,  and  we  shall  all  rejoice  together. 
In  the  meantime — "  He  paused  abruptly  and  turned  an  en- 
quiring gaze  upon  Mrs.  French. 

"In  the  meantime,  sir,"  said  that  lady,  with  quiet  decision, 
"  you  desire  our  passive  cooperation.  You  have  it." 

"  Oh,  Mamma !"  cried  Winnie  exultantly,  "  I  was  sure  you 
would  say  that.  I  was  sure  you  would  not  desert  poor  Leslie !" 

"  It  will  be  an  equal  favor  to  Mr.  Warburton/'  interposed 


A  TRIP  TO  EUROPE.  337 

the  lawyer,  with  the  shadow  of  a  twinkle  in  his  grey  eye. 

To  which  Winnie  responded  only  by  her  heightened  color 
and  a  half  perceptible  shrug. 

And  so  Mrs.  French  and  Winnie  were  escorted  by  Mr. 
Follingsbee  to  the  bereaved  and  deserted  mansion :  were  fully 
instructed  in  the  small  part  they  were  to  play  ;  and  were  left 
there  in  possession, — knowing  only  that  Leslie  and  Alan  were 
both  in  danger,  and  menaced  by  enemies,  that  their  absence 
was  necessary  to  their  safety,  and  might  also  result  in  the  res- 
toration of  little  Daisy. 

In  the  face  of  this  mystery  their  faith  remained  unshaken. 
They  accepted  Mr.  Follingsbee's  assurances,  and  also  the  part 
allotted  to  them,  the  part  which  so  commonly  falls  to  women, 
of  inactive  waiting. 

Meantime,  Van  Vernet,  in  a  state  of  exceeding  self-content, 
was  perfecting  his  latest  plan. 

He  had  failed  in  overtaking  and  identifying  the  trouble- 
some Organ-grinder,  who,  he  was  more  than  ever  convinced, 
was  a  spy,  though  in  what  interest,  or  in  whose  behalf,  he 
could  not  even  guess.  But  he  had  failed  in  nothing  else. 
His  ruse  had  been  most  successful.  He  had  been  admitted  to 
the  sanctum  of  Alan  Warburton  ;  had  seen  his  face,  heard  his 
voice,  noted  his  movements.  And  his  last  doubt  was  removed ; 
rather,  the  last  shade  of  uncertainty,  for  he  could  scarcely  be 
said  to  have  been  in  doubt  at  any  time. 

Alan  Warburton,  and  not  Archibald,  had  been  his  patron 
on  the  night  of  the  masquerade.  It  was  Alan  Warburton 
who,  in  the  guise  of  a  Sailor,  had  killed  Josef  Siebel  on  that 
selfsame  night.  There  was  much  that  was  still  a  mystery, 
but  that  could  now  be  sifted  out. 

22  *15 


338  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Why  had  Alan  Warburton  secured  his  services  to  shadow 
his  sister-in-law  ?  He  could  not  answer  this  question ;  but  it 
was  now  plain  to  him  that  he  had  been  summarily  dismissed 
from  the  case,  on  the  following  morning,  because  Alan  War- 
burton,  having  recognized  him  in  the  hovel,  had  feared  to 
meet  him  again. 

Why  had  he  sought  the  Francoise  abode  on  that  especial 
night?  And  why  had  he  killed  Josef  Siebel?  These  were 
problems  to  the  solution  of  which  he  could  now  turn  his  at- 
tention— after  he  had  secured  his  prisoner. 

He  had  consumed  some  time  in  his  hot  chase  after  the 
Organ-grinder,  and  then  he  had  hastened  to  set  a  fresh  guard 
upon  the  Warburton  house.  And  this  guard  had  just  re- 
ported. 

No  one  had  left,  no  one  had  arrived,  until  this  morning, 
when  two  ladies,  escorted  by  an  elderly  gentleman,  had  driven 
to  the  door.  The  ladies  had  remained;  the  gentleman  had 
departed  almost  immediately. 

Vernet  was  more  than  satisfied.  He  sent  a  messenger  to 
summon  to  his  aid  his  favorite  assistants,  made  some  other 
necessary  preparations,  and  sat  down  to  scan  the  morning  paper 
while  he  waited. 

His  quick  eye  noted  everything  of  a  personal  nature,  births, 
deaths,  marriages,  arrivals,  departures,  social  items.  Sud- 
denly he  flung  the  paper  from  him  and  bounded  to  his  feel, 
uttering  a  passionate  imprecation. 

Then  he  snatched  up  the  paper,  and,  as  if  for  once  he  doubted 
his  own  eyes,  reperused  the  startling  paragraph.  Yes,  it  was 
there;  it  was  no  optical  illusion. 

Alan  Warburton,  and  his  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Archibald 
Warburton  had  taken  passage  for  Liverpool,  on  board  the 
Clytie,  And  the  Clytie  was  to  sail  that  morning ! 


DR.  BAYLES8.  339 

In  one  moment,  Vernet  was  in  the  street.  In  five,  he  was 
driving  furiously  through  the  city.  In  half  an  hour,  he  had 
reached  his  destination. 

Too  late !  The  Clytie  had  cleared  the  harbor,  and  was  al- 
ready a  mere  speck  in  the  distance. 

"So,"  he  mattered,  turning  sullenly  away,  "he  thinks  he 
has  outwitted  me.  God  bless  the  Atlantic  cable !  When  my 
aristocratic  friend  arrives  in  Liverpool,  he  shall  receive  an 
ovation — from  Scotland  Yards !" 

While  Vernet  thus  comforted  himself,  Mr.  Follingsbee, 
seated  in  a  cosy  upper  room  of  his  own  dwelling,  addressed 
himself  to  a  gentleman  very  closely  resembling  Mr.  Alan 
Warburton. 

"  So  here  we  are,"  he  said,  with  a  chuckle.  "  The  Clytie 
has  sailed  before  how ;  you  are  on  your  way  to  Europe.  Mr. 
Vernet  will  head  you  off,  of  course.  In  the  meantime,  we 
gain  all  that  we  wanted,  time" 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

DE.  BAYLESS. 

All  the  long  night  that  followed  Leslie's  appearance  among 
the  Francoises,  Mamma  was  alert  and  watchful. 

Often  she  crept  to  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  where  Leslie 
slumbered  heavily.  Often  she  glanced,  with  a  grin  of  satisfac- 
tion, toward  the  couch  where  Franz  lay  breathing  regularly, 
and  scarcely  stirring  the  whole  night  through.  Often  she 
turned  her  face,  with  varying  expressions,  toward  the  corner 


340  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

where  Papa  slumbered  uneasily,  muttering  vaguely  from  time 
to  time.  But  never  once  did  her  eyes  close.  All  the  night 
she  watched  and  listened,  pondered  and  planned. 

As  morning  dawned,  the  stillness  of  the  inner  room  was 
pierced  by  a  burst  of  shrill  laughter,  followed  by  words  swiftly 
uttered  but  indistinct.  Mamma  hastened  at  once  to  the  bed- 
side of  her  new  charge. 

Leslie  had  broken  her  heavy  slumber,  but  the  fire  of  fever 
burned  in  her  cheeks,  the  light  of  insanity  blazed  from  her 
eyes ;  and  for  many  days  it  mattered  little  to  her  that  she 
was  a  fugitive  from  home,  a  woman  under  suspicion,  and 
helpless  in  the  hands  of  her  enemies.  Nature,  indulging  inn 
kindly  freak,  had  taken  her  back  to  her  girlhood's  day's,  before 
her  first  trouble  came.  She  was  Leslie  Uliman  again ; 
watched  over  by  loving  parents,  care-free  and  happy. 

It  was  a  crushing  blow  to  Mamma's  hopes  and  ambitions, 
and  she  faced  a  difficult  problem,  there  by  that  couch  in  the 
grey  of  morning.  Leslie  was  very  ill.  This  she  saw  at  a 
glance,  and  then  came  the  thought:  "What  if  she  were  to  die, 
and  just  at  a  time  when  so  much  depended  upon  her?  It 
roused  Mamma  to  instant  action.  Leslie  must  not  die — not 
yet. 

Papa  and  Franz  were  at  once  awakened,  and  the  situation 
made  known  to  them.  Whereupon  Papa  fell  into  a  state  of 
helpless,  hopeless  dejection,  and  Franz  flew  into  a  fury. 

"  It's  all  up  with  us  now/'  moaned  Papa.  "  Luck's  turned 
aginst  us." 

"  It's  up,  sure  enough,  with  your  fine  plans,"  sneered  Franz. 
"  I'm  goin'  ter  take  myself  out  of  yer  muddle,  while  my  way's 
clear." 

"If    I   wasn't  dealin'    with   a  pair   of  fools,"    snapped 


DR.  BAYLESS.  341 

Mamma,  "  I'd  come  out  all  right.  The  gal  ain't  dead  yet,  is 
she?" 

And  then,  while  Leslie  laughed  and  chattered,  alone  in  the 
inner  room,  the  three  resolved  themselves  into  a  council, 
wrangled  and  disputed,  and  at  last  compromised  and  settled 
upon  a  plan — Papa  yielding  sullenly,  Franz  protesting  to  the 
last  and  making  sundry  reservations,  and  Mamnn  carrying 
the  day. 

Leslie  must  have  a  physician ;  it  would  never  do  to  trust 
her  fever  to  unskilled  hands ;  she  must  have  a  physician,  and 
a  good  one.  So  said  Mamma. 

"  It  ain't  so  risky  as  you  might  think,"  she  argued.  "  A 
good  doctor's  what  we  want — one  whose  time's  valuable. 
Then  he  won't  be  running  here  when  he  ain't  wanted.  He'll 
come  an'  see  the  gal,  an'  then  he'll  be  satisfied  to  take  my  re- 
ports and  send  her  the  medicine.  Oh,  I  know  these  city 
doctors.  They  come  every  day  if  you've  got  a  marble  door- 
step, but  they  won't  be  any  too  anxious  about  poor  folks. 
A  doctor  can't  make  nothin'  out  of  the  kind  of  talk  she  is  at 
now,  and  by  the  time  she  gits  her  senses,  we'll  hit  on  some- 
thin'  new." 

This  plan  was  opposed  stoutly  by  Franz,  feebly  by  Papa; 
but  the  old  woman  carried  the  point  at  last. 

"I  know  who  we  want,"  said  Mamma  confidently.  "It's 
Doctor  Bayless.  He's  a  good  doctor,  an'  he  don't  live  any 
too  near." 

At  the  mention  of  Doctor  Bayless,  Papa's  countenance  took 
on  an  expression  of  relief,  which  was  noted  by  Franz,  who 
turned  away,  saying : 

"Wai,  git  your  doctor,  then,  an'  the  quicker  the  better. 
But  mind  this :  1  don't  appear  till  I'm  sure  it's  safe.  Ye  kin 


342  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

git  yer  doctor,  but  when  he's  here,  I'll  happen  ter  be  out." 

It  was  Mamma  who  summoned  Doctor  Bayless,  and  he 
came  once,  twice,  and  again. 

His  patient  passed,  under  his  care,  from  delirium  to  stupor, 
from  fever  to  coolness  and  calm,  and  then  to  returning  con- 
sciousness. As  he  turned  from  her  bedside,  at  the  termination 
of  his  third  visit,  he  said : 

"  I  think  she  will  get  on,  now.  Keep  her  quiet,  avoid  ex- 
citement, and  if  she  does  not  improve  steadily,  let  me  know." 

He  had  verified  Mamma's  good  opinion  of  him  by  mani- 
festing not  the  slightest  concern  in  the  personality  of  his  patient. 
If  he  were,  for  the  moment,  interested  in  Leslie,  it  was  as  a 
fever  patient,  not  as  a  woman  strangely  superior  to  her  sur- 
roundings. And  on  this  occasion  he  dropped  his  interest  in 
her  case  at  the  very  door  of  the  sick-room. 

At  the  corner  of  the  dingy  street,  a  voice  close  behind  him 
arrested  his  footsteps  :  "  Doctor  Bayless." 

The  man  of  medicine  turned  quickly  to  face  the  speaker. 

"This  is  Doctor  Bayless?"  the  owner  of  the  intrusive  voice 
queried. 

Doctor  Bayless  bowed  stiffly. 

"  Bayless,  formerly  of  the  R street  Insane  Asylum  ?" 

persisted  the  questioner. 

The  doctor  reddened  and  a  startled  look  crossed  his  face, 
but  he  said,  after  a  moment's  silence  :  "  The  same." 

"  I  want  a  few  words  with  you,  sir." 

"Excuse  me;" — the  doctor  was  growing  haughty; — "my 
time  is  not  my  own." 

"  Neither  is  mine,  sir.  I  am  a  public  benefactor,  same  as 
yourself." 

"Ah,  a  physician?" 

"  Oh,  not  at  all ;  a  detective." 


DELAYS  ARE  DANGEROUS.  343 

"A  detective!"  Doctor  Bay  less  did  not  look  reassured.  He 
glanced  at  the  detective,  and  then  up  and  down  the  street,  his 
uneasiness  evident. 

"  I  am  a  detective ;  yes,  sir,"  said  the  stranger  cheerily, 
"  and  you  are  in  a  position  to  do  me  a  favor  without  in  any 
way  discommoding  yourself.  Don't  be  alarmed,  sir;  its  noth- 
ing that  affects  you  or  touches  upon  that  asylum  business. 
You  are  safe  with  me,  my  word  for  it,  and  here's  my  card. 
Now,  sir,  just  take  my  arm  and  come  this  way." 

Doctor  Bayless  glanced  down  at  the  card,  and  then  up  at 
the  speaker ;  and  a  look  of  relief  crossed  his  face  as  he  accepted 
the  proffered  arm,  and  walked  slowly  along  at  the  side  of  his 
new  acquaintance. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

DELAYS  ARE  DANGEROUS. 

Doctor  Bayless  had  predicted  aright.  Leslie  continued  to 
gain  slowly,  and  in  the  third  week  of  her  illness,  she  could  sit 
erect  in  her  bed  for  an  hour  or  two  each  day,  listening  to 
Mamma's  congratulations,  and  recalling,  one  by  one,  her  woes 
of  the  past.  Not  recalling  them  poignantly,  with  the  sharp 
pain  that  would  torture  her  when  she  should  have  gained  fuller 
strength,  but  vaguely,  with  a  haunting  pang,  as  one  remembers 
an  unhappy  dream. 

Day  by  day,  as  strength  came  back,  her  listlessness  gave 
place  to  painful  thought.  One  day,  sitting  for  the  first  time 
in  a  lounging-chair,  procured  at  second-hand  for  her  comfort, 
she  felt  that  the  time  had  come  to  break  the  silence  which, 


344  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

since  her  first  full  awakening  to  consciousness,  she  had  imposed 
upon  herself. 

Mamma  was  bustling  about  the  room,  inwardly  longing  to 
begin  the  passage-at-arms  which  she  knew  must  soon  ensue, 
and  outwardly  seeming  solicitous  for  nothing  save  the  com- 
fort of  her  "  dear  girl."  As  Leslie's  eyes  followed  her  about, 
each  seemed  suddenly  to  have  formed  a  like  resolve. 

"  How  many  days  have  I  been  ill  ?"  asked  Leslie  slowly, 
and  languidly  resting  her  head  upon  her  hand. 

Mamma  turned  toward  her  and  seemed  to  meditate. 

"How  many  days,  my  child?  Ah,  let  us  see.  Why,  it's 
weeks  since  you  came  to  us — two,  yes,  three  weeks ;  three 
weeks  and  a  day." 

Leslie  was  silent  for  a  moment.     Then  she  asked: 

"And  you  have  nursed  me  through  my  illness;  you 
alone?" 

"Surely;  who  else  would  there  be?"  replied  Mamma  in  an 
injured  tone. 

"  Who,  indeed !"  repeated  Leslie  bitterly.  "  Sit  down, 
Madam;  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

Mamma  drew  forward  a  chair,  and  sank  upon  it  with  a 
gratified  sigh.  It  had  come  at  last,  the  opportunity  for  which 
she  had  planned  and  waited.  She  could  scarcely  conceal  her 
satisfaction. 

"You  have  nursed  me,"  began  Leslie  slowly,  "through  a 
tedious  illness,  and  I  have  learned  that  you  do  nothing  gratui- 
tously. What  do  you  expect  of  me?" 

"Oh,  my  child— " 

"  Stop!"  lifting  her  head,  and  fixing  her  eyes  upon  the  old 
woman;  "no  evasions;  I  want  the  plain  truth.  I  have  no 
money.  My  husband's  fortune  I  will  never  claim.  I  have 


DELAYS  ABE  DANGEROUS.  345 

told  you  this;  I  repeat  it.  So  what  do  you  expect  of  me? 
"Why  was  I  not  permitted  to  die  in  my  delirium?" 

Among  her  other  talents,  Mamma  Francoise  numbered  that 
power,  as  useful  off  the  stage  as  it  is  profitable  behind  the 
footlights — the  power  to  play  a  part.  And  now,  bringing 
this  power  into  active  use,  she  bowed  her  head  upon  her  breast 
and  sighed  heavily. 

"Ah,  Leschen,  you  break  my  heart.  We  wanted  you  to 
live;  we  thought  you  had  something  to  live  for." 

The  acting  was  excellent,  but  the  words  were  ill- 
chosen. 

"  Something  to  live  for!"  Leslie's  hands  met  in  a  passion- 
ate clasp.  "  Something  to  live  for !  Right,  woman ;  I  have. 
Tell  me,  since  you  have  brought  me  back  to  myself,  how,  how 
can  I  ransom  Daisy  Warburton?" 

Mamma's  time  has  come.  Slowly  she  wipes  away  an  im- 
aginary tear,  softly  she  draws  her  chair  yet  nearer  Leslie, 
gently  she  begins. 

"  Leschen,  my  poor  girl,  don't  think  us  guilty  of  stealing 
your  little  one;  don't.  When  you  came  here  that  night,  T 
thought  you  were  wild.  But  now, — since  you  have  been  sick 
— something  has  happened." 

She  paused  to  note  the  effect  of  her  words,  but  Leslie  sat 
quite  still,  with  her  hands  tightly  locked  together. 

"Something  has  happened?"  she  echoed  coldly.  "I  felt 
sure  it  would;  go  on." 

"  It  isn't  what  you  think,  my  girl.  We  haven't  found  youi 
little  deaf ;  but  there  is  a  person — 

"Go  on,"  commanded  Leslie:  "straight  to  the  point. 
Go  on!" 

"  A  person  who  might  find  the  child,  if — " 


346  BANGEfcOUS  GROUND. 

"  If  he  or  she  were  sufficiently  rewarded,"  supplied  Leslie. 
"  Quick ;  tell  me,  what  must  Daisy's  ransom  be  ?" 

Mamma's  pulse  beats  high,  her  breath  comes  fast  and  loud. 
It  is  not  in  her  nature  to  trifle  with  words  now.  She  leans 
forward  and  breathes  one  word  into  Leslie's  ear. 

"~Yourself." 

"Myself!"  Leslie  gasps  and  her  brain  reels.  "Myself!" 
she  controls  her  agitation,  and  asks  fiercely :  "  Woman,  what 
do  you  dare  to  say?" 

"Only  this,"  Mamma  continues,  very  firmly  and  with  the 
tiger  look  dawning  in  her  eye.  "You  have  no  money,  but 
you  have  beauty,  and  that  is  much  to  a  man.  Will  you  marry 
the  man  who  will  find  your  little  girl  ?" 

In  spite  of  her  weakness,  Leslie  springs  up  and  stands 
above  Mamma,  a  fierce  light  blazing  in  her  eyes. 

" Woman,  answer  me!' '  she  cries  fiercely;  "do  you  know 
where  that  child  is  ?" 

"1?  Oh,  no,  my  dear." 

"  Is  there  another,  a  man,  who  knows?" 

Slowly  Mamma  rises,  and  the  two  face  each  other  with  set 
features. 

"  There  is  a  man,"  says  Mamma,  swaying  her  body  slightly 
as  she  speaks,  and  almost  intoning  her  words — "  There  is  a 
man  who  swears  he  can  find  the  child,  but  he  will  not  make 
any  other  terms  than  these.  He  will  not  see  you  at  all  until 
you  have  agreed  to  his  demands.  You  will  marry  him,  and 
sign  a  paper  giving  him  a  right  to  a  portion  of  your  fortune, 
in  case  you  should  make  up  your  mind  to  claim  it.  You  may 
leave  him  after  the  ceremony,  if  you  will ;  you  need  not  see 
him  again ;  but  you  must  swear  never  to  betray  him  or  us, 
and  never  to  tell  how  you  found  the  child." 


DELAYS  ARE  DAtfGffifcOtfS.  34? 

Into  Leslie's  face  creeps  a  look  of  intense  loathing.  All  her 
courageous  soul  seems  aroused  into  fearless  action.  Her  scorn- 
ful eyes  fairly  burn  into  the  old  woman's  face. 

"So,"  she  says,  low  and  slowly,  "  I  have  found  you  out  at 
last."  And  then  the  weak  body  refuses  to  support  the  daunt- 
less spirit. 

She  sinks  back  upon  her  chair,  her  form  shaking,  her  face 
ghastly,  her  hands  falling  weakly  as  they  will.  But  as 
Mamma  comes  forward,  the  strong  spirit  for  a  moment  mas- 
ters the  weak  body. 

"Don't  touch  me,"  she  almost  hisses,  "or,  weak  as  I  am,  I 
might  murder  you  !  wait." 

And  Mamma  stands  aloof,  waiting.  Not  while  Leslie 
thinks — there  is  no  confusion  of  mind — only  until  the  bodily 
tremor  ceases,  until  the  nerves  grow  calmer,  until  she  has  her- 
self once  more  under  control.  She  does  not  attempt  to  rise 
again.  She  reclines  in  her  easy  chair,  and  looks  at  her  adver- 
sary unflinchingly. 

"  At  last,"  she  says,  after  favoring  Mamma  with  a  long  look 
of  scorn  ;  "  at  last  you  show  yourself  in  your  true  character. 
Your  own  hand  pulls  offyour  hypocrite's  mask.  "Woman,  you 
were  never  so  acceptable  to  me  as  at  this  moment.  It  simplifies 
everything." 

"You  must  not  think — "  begins  Mamma.  But  Leslie 
checks  her. 

"  Stop !"  she  says  imperiously.  "Don't  waste  words.  We 
have  wasted  too  many,  and  too  much  time.  I  desire  you  to 
repeat  your  proposition,  to  name  your  terms  again.  No  more 
whining,  no  more  lies,  if  you  want  me  to  listen.  You  are  my 
enemy ;  speak  as  my  enemy.  Once  more,  your  terms  for 
Daisy's  ransom." 


348  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

And  Mamma,  too  wise  to  err  in  this  particular,  abandons  her 
role  of  injured  affection.  Dropping  her  mantle  of  hypocrisy, 
not  without  a  sense  of  relief,  she  repeats  her  former  proposal, 
clearly,  curtly,  brutally,  leaving  no  room  for  doubt  as  to  her 
precise  meaning. 

Leslie  listens  in  cold  silence  and  desperate  calm.  Then,  as 
Mamma  ceases,  she  sits,  still  calm,  cold  and  silent,  looking 
straight  before  her.  At  last  she  speaks. 

"  This  person,"  she  says  slowly ;  "  this  man  who  can  find 
Daisy  if  he  will — may  I  not  see  him?" 

"  When  you  have  given  your  promise;  not  before." 

"  He  will  accept  no  other  terms  ?" 

"Never." 

"And  this  transaction,  this  infamy — he  leaves  all  details 
to  you  ?" 

"Just  so." 

"Then  there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  I  might  hope  for 
mercy  from  the  beasts  of  the  field,  but  not  from  you." 

"You  consent?" 

"  If  I  refuse,  what  will  be  the  consequences  to  Daisy  ?" 

"You  had  better  not  refuse!"  retorts  Mamma,  with  a  glare 
of  rage. 

Before  Leslie's  mind  comes  the  picture  of  little  Daisy,  and 
following  it  a  panorama  of  horrors.  Again  she  feels  her 
strength  deserting  her. 

.  "Wait,"  she  whispers  with  her  last  fragment  of  self-com- 
mand. "  Leave  me  to  myself.  Before  sunset  you  shall  have 
my  answer." 

Further  words  are  useless.  Mamma,  seeing  this,  turns 
slowly  a\vav,  saying  only,  as  she  pauses  at  the  door: 

"  Don't  waste  your  time ;  delays  are  dangerous" 


A  PROMISE  RETRACTED.  349 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 

A  PROMISE  RETRACTED. 

Left  alone,  Leslie  Warburton  faced  her  problem,  and  found 
herself  mastered  by  it.  She  had  believed  herself  already  over- 
whelmed with  misery — had  fancied  that  in  coming  among 
these  people  who  claimed  her,  she  had  taken  the  last  step  down 
into  the  valley  of  humiliation,  of  shame,  of  utter  wretched- 
ness. But  they  had  shown  her  a  lower  depth  still,  and  bid- 
den her  descend  into  it. 

Should  she  obey  them?  Her  pulses  were  throbbing 
violently,  a  fierce  flame  burned  in  either  cheek,  a  shade  of  the 
old  delirium  lurked  in  her  eye.  Should  she  crown  her  list 
of  miseries  with  this  culminating  horror  ?  Why  should  she 
not?  What  had  she  to  lose?  She,  who  had  already  lost 
husband,  home  and  happiness;  she,  who  was  already  an  out- 
cast, accused  of  treachery,  of  child-stealing,  of  murder ;  she, 
who  was  only  a  waif  at  best,  and  who  could  claim  no  kindred 
unless  she  accepted  those  whose  roof  then  sheltered  her? 
What  had  she  to  lose?  Only  her  life,  and  that  must  end 
soon.  Why  not  make  this  last  sacrifice,  then  let  it  end. 

Her  calmness,  that  before  had  been  at  best  but  the  calmness 
of  despair,  had  forsaken  her ;  had  changed  to  the  recklessness 
of  desperation.  Faster  and  faster  throbbed  her  pulses,  hotter 
surged  the  blood  through  her  fevered  veins,  wilder  gleamed 
the  light  of  her  eyes. 

Born  of  her  weakness,  her  misery,  her  growing  delirium, 


350  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

came  a  fierce,  unreasoning  rebellion ;  a  longing  to  thrust  upon 
the  shoulders  of  Alan  Warburton,  who,  more  than  any  other, 
had  been  the  cause  of  her  present  woe,  a  portion  of  this  weight 
that  dragged  her  down.  Had  she  not  suffered  enough  for  the 
"  Warburton  honor?"  Why  not  force  him  to  tread  with  her 
this  valley  of  humiliation? 

Then  followed  other  thoughts — better  thoughts,  humbler 
thoughts,  but  all  morbid,  all  tinged  by  her  half  delirious  fancy, 
all  reckless  of  self. 

And  now  every  moment  adds  to  her  torture,  increases  the 
fever  in  her  blood,  the  frenzy  of  her  brain. 

"I  must  end  it!"  she  cries  wildly.  "I  must  save  Daisy! 
And  after  that  what  matter  how  my  day  goes  out?" 

She  walks  swiftly  to  the  door  and  attempts  to  open  it.  Use- 
less ;  it  is  fastened  from  the  outer  side.  She  seizes  the  handle 
and  shakes  it  fiercely.  It  seems  an  hour,  it  is  really  a  moment, 
when  Mamma  unlocks  the  door  and  appears  before  her. 

"You—" 

"I  have  decided,"  breaks  in  Leslie.  "I  shall  make  the 
sacrifice." 

"You  will  marry  this  worthy  man?" 

"  I  will  save  Daisy  from  your  clutches,  and  his." 

"In  his  own  way?" 

"In  his  own  way,  and  yours.  Let  it  be  over  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. Where  is  this  man?" 

"  Gently,  gently ;  he  is  not  far  away." 

"So  much  the  better.  I  cannot  rest  now  till  all  is  done. 
I  must  take  Daisy  back  to  her  home ;  the  rest  is  nothing." 

Mamma  looks  at  her  craftily. 

"You  agree  to  all  the  terms  ?"  she  asks.  "Will  you  swear 
to  keep  your  word?" 


A  PROMISE  RETRACTED.  361 

"  I  will  do  anything,  when  I  am  assured  that  I  shall  have 
Daisy  safely  back." 

"  Ah !"  ejaculates  Mamma,  indulging  in  a  long  sigh  of  re- 
lieved anxiety,  "  I  will  go  tell  Franz.  He  is  as  anxious  to 
have  the  business  settled  as  you  are." 

"  Franz  !" 

"Yes;  it  is  Franz  that  you  will  marry." 

"  Franz !"  the  word  comes  in  a  breathless  whisper.  "  Your 
son — the  convict  ?" 

"  You  needn't  put  so  much  fo/ee  upon  that.  Yes ;  Franzy's 
the  man." 

A  new  look  dawns  upon  Leslie's  face.  A  new  light  gleams 
from  her  eyes.  She  presses  her  palms  to  her  forehead,  then 
slowly  approaches  Mamma,  with  the  uncertain  movements  of 
one  groping  in  the  dark. 

"You  told — "  she  articulates,  as  if  struggling  for  self-mas- 
tery. "  Woman,  you  told  me  that  Franz  Francoise  was  your 
son." 

"  So  he  is  •  I  ain't  ashamed  of  him,"  Mamma  answers  sul- 
lenly. 

"  Then," — Leslie  clutches  at  the  nearest  support  and  fairly 
gasps  the  words — "  then — who  am  If 

"  Well,  it  can't  be  kept  back  any  longer,  it  seems.  You 
are—" 

"Not  your  child?"  cries  Leslie.     "Not  yours?" 

"No;  you  ain't  ours  by  birth, but  you're  ours  by  adoption. 
We've  reared  ye,  and  we've  made  ye  what  ye  are." 

But  Leslie  pays  no  heed  to  this  latter  statement.  She  has 
fallen  upon  her  knees  with  hands  uplifted,  and  streaming  eyes. 

"Xot  her  child;  not  hers!  Oh,  God,  I  thank  thee!  Oh, 
God,  forgive  me  for  what  I  was  about  to  do  J" 


352  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Long,  shivering  sighs  follow  this  outburst;  then  moments 
of  silence,  during  which  Mamma  stands  irresolute,  puzzled  as 
to  Leslie's  manner,  uncertain  how  to  act. 

A  sound  behind  her  breaks  the  uncomfortable  stillness,  and 
Mamma  turns  quickly,  to  see  Franz  standing  in  the  open  door- 
way. 

"  Franz, — "  begins  the  old  woman. 

The  word  arouses  Leslie,  she  rises  to  her  feet  so  swiftly, 
with  such  sudden  strength  of  movement,  and  such  a  new  light 
upon  her  face,  that  Mamma  breaks  off  abruptly  and  stands 
staring  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  Woman,"  says  Leslie  slowly  and  with  strange  calm,  "  those 
are  the  first  welcome  words  you  ever  uttered  for  my  hearing. 
Say  them  again.  Say  that  I  am  not  your  child." 

"  I  don't  see  what  it  matters,"  mutters  Mamma  sullenly. 
"You  will  be  our'n  fast  enough  when  you're  married  to 
Franz." 

"  Eh !"  Franz  utters  only  this  syllable,  and  advances  step 
by  step  into  the  room. 

A  moment  Leslie  stands  gazing  from  one  to  the  other. 
Then  her  form  grows  more  erect,  the  new  hope  brighter  in  her 
eyes,  she  seems  growing  stronger  each  moment. 

"Half  an  hour  ago,"  she  says,  "I  had  not  one  thing  to 
hope  for,  or  to  live  for,  save  the  restoration  of  Daisy  "Warbur- 
ton,  for  I  believed  myself  accursed.  Rebel  as  my  soul  would, 
while  your  lips  repeated  your  claim  upon  me  I  could  not  es- 
cape you.  While  you  persisted  in  your  lies,  I  was  helpless. 
Now— " 

Mamma's  hands  work  convulsively ;  her  eyes  glitter  dan- 
gerously; she  looks  like  a  cat  about  to  spring  upon  its  prey. 
As  Leslie  pauses  thus  abruptly,  her  lips  emit  &  sharp  hiss, 


A  PKOMISE  EETEACTED.  353 

but  before  words  can  follow,  a  heavy  hand  grasps  her  arm. 

"Go  on,"  says  Franz  coolly;  "now?" 

"Do  you  know  the  proposition  that  woman  has  just  made 
me?"  asks  Leslie  abruptly; 

"'Twon't  be  good  for  her,  if  she  has  made  ye  a  proposition 
I  don't  know  on,"  says  Franz  grimly,  and  tightening  his 
clutch  upon  Mamma's  arm.  "  An'  fer  fear  of  any  hocus- 
pocus,  suppose  you  jest  go  over  it  fer  my  benefit." 

"  She  has  told  me  that  you  can,  if  you  will,  restore  Daisy 
Warburton  to  her  home." 

"No?  has  she?" 

"That  you,  and  you  only,  know  where  to  look  for  the  child." 

"Umph!" 

"  And  that  you  will  restore  the  child  only  on  one  condition." 

"And  wot's  that?" 

"  That  I  consent  to  marry  you." 

"Wai,"  says  Franz,  turning  a  facetious  look  upon  Mamma, 
and  giving  her  arm  a  gentle  shake;  "the  old  un  may  have 
trifled  with  the  truth,  here  and  there,  but  she's  right  in  the 
main.  How  did  the  proposition  strike  ye?" 

Leslie  turns  from  him  and  fixes  her  gaze  upon  the  old 
woman. 

"And  this,"  she  says,  "  is  the  man  you  would  mate  me  with ! 
Woman,  you  have  overreached  yourself.  Believing,  or  fear- 
ing, myself  to  be  your  child,  I  might  have  been  driven  to  any 
act  of  desperation.  You  have  lifted  that  burden  of  horror 
from  off  my  heart.  I  am  not  your  child !  No  blood  of  yours 
poisons  my  veins !  Do  you  think  in  the  moment  when  I  find 
the  taint  removed,  I  would  doubly  defile  myself  by  taking  the 
step  you  have  proposed?  Never !  Your  power  over  me  is 
gone!" 


354  DANGEROUS  GEOUND. 

"Do  ye  mean,"  queries  Franz  quite  coolly,  "  that  you  won't 
take  up  with  the  old  woman's  bargain?" 

"She  has  done  it!"  cries  Mamma  fiercely.  "She's  given 
her  promise !" 

"And  I  now  retract  it!" 

"What!"  Mamma  suddenly  wrenches  herself  free  and 
springs  toward  Leslie.  "You  won't  marry  Franz?" 

"  Never !  The  fear  which  has  made  me  a  coward  is  gone. 
I  shall  go  back  to  my  own.  I  will  tell  my  story  far  and  wide. 
I  feared  nothing  so  much  as  the  shame  of  being  pointed  out 
as  the  child  of  such  parents.  You  will  not  dare  repeat  that 
imposture;  I  defy  you.  As  for  little  Daisy,  I  will  find  her; 
I  will  punish  you — " 

"You  will  find  her!"  Mamma's  voice  is  horrible  in  its 
hoarse  rage.  "Now  mark  my  words:  You  will  never  find 
her.  She  will  never  see  daylight  again.  As  for  you,  you 
will  marry  Franz  Francoise  to-morrow,  or  you  will  go  out  of 
this  place  between  two  officers,  arrested  as  the  murderess  of 
Josef  Siebel!" 

It  is  more  than  she  can  bear.  The  strength  born  of  her 
strong  excitement  deserts  her.  Mamma's  eyes  burn  into  her 
own ;  she  feels  her  hot,  baleful  breath  upon  her  cheek ;  hears 
the  horrible  words  hissed  so  close  to  her  ear;  and  with  a  low 
moan  falls  forward,  to  be  caught  in  the  arms  of  Frauz  Fran- 
coise, where  she  lies  pallid  and  senseless. 

"Git  out!"  says  Franz,  as  he  lifts  her  and  turns  toward 
Mamma.  "  You've  done  it  now,  you  old  cat.  Let  me  lay 
her  down." 

He  carries  Leslie  to  the  bed,  and  places  her  upon  it  so 
gently  that  Mamma  sneers  and  glares  upon  him  scornfully. 

"  Ye're  a  fool,  Franz  Francoise," 


"Now  mark  my  words:  You  will  never  find  her.     She  will  never  see 
iu/  — page  354. 

355 


356  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  Shet  up,  you !  Ye've  got  somethin'  to  do  besides  talk. 
D'ye  nieau  to  have  her  die  on  our  hands?" 

"  'Twon't  matter  much,  it  seems." 

"I  tell  ye  'twill  matter.  Do  ye  think  this  thing's  settled? 
Not  much.  We're  goiii'  ter  bring  her  to  terms  yet,  but  she's 
got  ter  be  alive  first." 

She  turns  upon  him  a  look  in  which  auger  and  admiration 
are  curiously  mingled. 

"'Tain't  no  use,  Franzy;  that  gal  won't  give  in  now." 

"I  tell  ye  she  will.  You've  tried  your  hand;  now  I'll  try 
mine.  Bring  the  girl  out  o'  this  faint,  an'  I'll  manage  her. 
Do  what  ye  can,  then  git  yer  doctor.  Ye'd  better  not  have 
him  come  here  ef  ye  kin  manage  without  him ;  but  go  see  him, 
git  what  she  needs,  an',"  with  a  significant  Avink,  "ye  might 
say  that  she  don't  rest  well  and  git  a  few  sleepin'  powders." 

"Franz,"  chuckles  Mamma,  beginning  her  work  of  restora- 
tion with  bustling  activity,  "ye  ought  to  be  a  general.  I'm 
proud  of  ye." 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

A  WELCOME  PRESCRIPTION. 

Savage  Mamma  Francoise  was  not  an  unskillful  nurse,  and 
Leslie  was  soon  restored  to  consciousness.  But  not  to  strength ; 
i!ie  little  that  she  had  gained  was  spent  by  that  long  inter- 
view, with  all  its  attendant  conflicting  emotions,  and  Leslie 
lay,  strengthless  once  more,  at  the  mercy  of  her  enemies. 

After  much  thinking,  Mamma  had  decided  that  Franz  had 


A  WELCOME  PRESCRIPTION.  357 

offered  sound  advice,  and  having  exhausted  her  own  resources, 
she  set  out  to  consult  Doctor  Bayless. 

Her  visit  was  in  every  way  satisfactory.  Doctor  Bayless 
manifested  no  undue  curiosity;  seemed  to  comprehend  the 
case  as  Mamma  put  it;  prepared  the  necessary  remedies,  and 
spoke  encouragingly  of  the  patient. 

"These  relapses  occur  often  after  fevers,"  he  said  ;  "the  re- 
sult of  too  much  ambition.  You  understand  about,  the  drops, 
yes  ?  These  powders  you  will  administer  properly  ;  not  too 
often,  remember.  Careful  nursing  will  do  the  rest.  Ah, 
good-day." 

"Ye  needn't  be  afraid  to  take  yer  medicine,"  said  Mamma 
to  her  patient,  coming  to  the  bedside  with  a  dose  of  the  afore- 
said "drops."  " 'Tain't  no  part  of  my  plans  to  let  ye  die.  I 
intend  to  nurse  ye  through,  but  I  tell  ye  plain  that  when  ye're 
better  ye'll  have  to  settle  this  business  with  Franzy.  When 
ye're  on  yer  feet  agin,  I'm  goin'  to  wash  my  hands  of  ye.  But 
ye  may  not  find  Franz  so  easily  got  rid  of,  mind  that." 

Realizing  her  helplessness,  Leslie  swallowed  the  drops  and 
then  lay  back,  pale  and  panting,  upon  her  pillow.  As  the 
moments  passed,  she  could  feel  the  liquid  coursing  its  way 
through  her  veins;  her  nerves  ceased  to  quiver,  a  strange  calm 
crept  over  her,  her  pulses  throbbed  quite  steadily.  She  was 
very  weak,  but  found  herself  able  to  think  clearly. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Doctor  Bayless  appeared  upon  the  Fran- 
coise  threshold,  a  small  vial  in  his  hand,  a  look  of  anxiety 
upon  his  countenance. 

He  pushed  his  way  into  the  room,  in  spite  of  the  less  than 
half  opened  door,  and  Mamma's  lukewarm  welcome.  He 
seemed  to  notice  neither.  Still  less  did  he  concern  himself 


358  DAtfGfiROUS  GROttKD. 


with  Papa  and  Franz,  partaking  of  luncheon  in  the  opposite 
corner  of  the  room. 

He  addressed  Mamma  almost  breathlessly. 

Had  the  drops  been  administered  ? 

Mamma  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

Then  he  must  see  the  patient  at  once.  There  had  been  a 
dangerous  mistake.  By  some  inadvertence  he  had  exchanged 
two  similar  vials  ;  he  had  given  Mamma  the  wrong  medicine. 
The  result  might  prove  fatal. 

It  was  no  time  for  parley  or  hesitation.  Mamma  promptly 
led  the  way  to  the  inner  room. 

As  Leslie  greeted  her  visitor  with  a  look  of  inquiry,  Doctor 
Bayless,  standing  by  the  bedside,  with  his  back  to  Mamma, 
put  a  warning  forefinger  upon,  his  lips,  his  eyes  meeting  Les- 
lie's with  a  glance  full  of  meaning. 

"Keep  perfectly  quiet,  young  woman,"  he  said  in  his  best 
professional  tone.  And  as  Mamma  presented  a  chair,  he  seated 
himself  close  beside  the  bed  and  bent  over  his  patient,  seem- 
ingly intent  upon  her  symptoms. 

Presently  he  turned  toward  Mamma. 

"I  must  have  warm  water;  prepare  it  at  once."  Then 
rising,  he  followed  Mamma  to  the  door,  saying  in  a  low  tone: 
"Your  patient  must  have  perfect  quiet;  let  there  be  no  loud 
noise  about  the  house.  Now  the  water,  if  you  please,  and 
make  haste." 

He  turned  and  went  back  to  the  bedside,  seated  himself  as 
before,  and  taking  one  of  the  patient's  hands,  seemed  intently 
marking  every  pulse-beat.  A  look  of  deep  concern  rested 
upon  his  face  ;  and  Mamma  closed  the  door  softly  and  went 
about  her  task. 

"Old  un,"  began  Franz,  "ye're  gittin'  careless  —  " 

"Sh!"  whispered  Mamma;  "  no  noise." 


A  WELCOME  PRESCRIPTION.  359 

But  Franz,  with  a  crafty  leer,  left  his  place  at  the  table  and 
tiptoed  to  the  door,  where  he  crouched,  applying  alternately 
his  eye  and  his  ear  to  the  keyhole,  while  Mamma  busied  her- 
self at  the  fire. 

But  Franz  caught  no  word  from  the  inner  room,  for  Doctor 
Bayless  never  once  opened  his  lips.  The  watcher  could  see 
his  large  form  bending  over  the  led,  with  one  hand  slightly 
upraised  as  if  holding  a  watch,  the  other  resting  upon  the 
wrist  of  the  patient. 

But  Leslie  saw  more  than  this.  Locked  in  that  strange 
calm,  she  saw  the  doctor's  hand  go  to  his  side,  and  take  from 
a  pocket  a  card  which  quite  filled  his  palm. 

Holding  this  card  so  that  Leslie  could  easily  scan  its  con- 
tents, he  sat  mutely  watching  her  face. 

The  card  contained  these  words,  closely  written  in  a  fine, 
firm  hand: 

Seem  to  submit  to  their  plans.  We  can  conquer  in  no  other  way. 
At  the  right  time  I  shall  be  at  hand,  and  no  harm  shall  befall  you.  Let 
them  play  their  game  to  the  very  last;  it  shall  not  go  too  far.  Feign  a 
continual  stupor;  they  will  believe  it  the  result  of  drugs.  Trust  all  to 

me,  and  believe  your  troubles  almost  over. 

STANHOPE. 

Three  times  did  Leslie's  eyes  peruse  these  words,  and  in 
spite  of  that  powerful  soothing  draught,  her  composure  almost 
forsook  her.  But  she  controlled  herself  bravely,  and  only  by 
a  long  look  of  hopeful  intelligence,  and  a  very  slight  gesture, 
did  she  respond  to  this  written  message  so  sorely  needed,  so 
welcome,  so  fraught  with  hope. 

When  Mamma  returned  with  the  water,  Leslie  lay  quiet 
among  the  pillows,  her  eyes  half  closed,  and  no  trace  of  emo- 
tion in  her  face.  But  her  heart  was  beating  with  a  new  im- 


360  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

pulse.  That  message  had  brought  with  it  a  comforting  sense 
of  protection,  and  of  help  near  at  hand. 

The  last  instructions  of  Doctor  Bayless,  too,  fell  upon  her 
ear  with  hopeful  meaning,  although  they  were  spoken,  appar- 
ently, for  Mamma's  sole  benefit. 

"  She  is  a  trifle  dull,"  he  said,  turning  from  the  bed  and 
confronting  Mamma.  "  It's  the  result  of  that  mistaken  dose, 
in  part.  In  part,  it's  the  natural  outcome  of  her  fever.  It's 
better  for  her;  she  will  gain  strength  faster  so.  These  pow- 
ders"— depositing  a  packet  of  paper  folds  in  Mamma's  hand, 
— "  are  to  strengthen  and  to  soothe.  She  must  take  them 
regularly.  She  will  be  a  little  dull  under  their  influence,  very 
docile  and  easy  to  manage,  but  she  will  gain  strength  quite 
rapidly.  In  a  week,  if  she  is  not  unnerved  or  excited,  she 
should  be  able  to  be  up,  to  be  out." 

Once  more  he  turned  toward  Leslie,  and  took  her  hand  in 
his. 

What  Mamma  saw,  was  a  careful  physician  going  through 
with  a  last  professional  formula.  What  Leslie  felt,  was  a 
warm,  reassuring  hand-clasp,  friendly  rather  than  professional. 

When  he  had  gone,  Leslie  lay  quiet,  repeating  over  and 
over  in  her  mind  the  words  of  Stanhope's  note,  and  feeling 
throughout  her  entire  being  a  strong,  new  desire  to  live. 


CHAPTER  L. 
MR.  FOLLINGSBEE'S  SOCIAL  CALL. 

Five  weeks  have  passed  since  the  fateful  masquerade.  Five 
weeks  since  Vernet  and  Stanhope  entered,  in  rivalry,  the  ser- 
vice of  Walter  Parks,  the  bearded  Englishman.  Five  weeks 


"Holding  this  card  so  Leslie  could  easily  scan  its  contents,  he  sat 

mutely  watching  her  face."— page  359. 

361 


362  t>ANGfinotfs 

since  that  last  named  and  eccentric  individual  set  sail  for  far- 
off  Australia. 

Matters  are  moving  slowly  at  the  Agency.  Van  Vernet  is 
seldom  seen  there  now,  and  Stanhope  is  not  seen  at  all. 

In  his  private  office  the  Chief  of  the  detectives  sits  musing ; 
not  placidly,  as  is  usual  with  him,  but  with  a  growing  restless- 
ness, and  a  dark  frown  upon  his  broad,  high  brow. 

The  thing  which  has  caused  the  disquiet  and  the  frown,  lies 
upon  the  desk  beside  him,  just  under  his  uneasy  right  hand. 
A  letter;  a  letter  from  California,  from  Walter  Parks. 

It  was  brief  and  business-like  ;  it  explained  nothing ;  and 
it  puzzled  the  astute  Chief  not  a  little. 

John  Ainsworth  is  better;  so  much  better  that  we  shall  start  in  two 
days  for  your  city.  His  interests  are  identical  with  mine,  and  he  may 
be  able,  in  some  way,  to  throw  a  little  light  upon  the  Arthur  Pearson 
mystery. 

Walter  Parks  had  set  out  for  Australia,  drawn  thither  by 
an  advertisement  mentioning  the  name  of  Arthur  Pearson. 
It  had  also  contained  the  name  of  John  Ainsworth ;  but  this 
had  seemed  of  secondary  interest  to  the  queer  Englishman. 
He  had  distinctly  stated  that  he  knew  nothing'of  John  Ains- 
worth ;  had  never  seen  him. 

And  yet  here  he  was,  if  this  letter  were  not  a  hoax,  journey- 
ing eastward  at  that  very  moment,  in  company  with  this  then 
unknown  man. 

Evidently,  he  had  not  visited  Australia;  that  he  could  have 
done  so  was  scarcely  possible.  And  he  was  coming  back  with 
this  John  Ainsworth  to  urge  on  the  search  for  the  murderer 
of  Arthur  Pearson. 

They  would  hope  much,  expect  much,  from  Vernet  and 
Stanhope.  And  what  had  been  done  ? 


MR.  FOLLINGSBEE'S  SOCIAL  CALL.  363 

Since  the  day  when  Stanhope  had  suddenly  appeared  in  his 
presence,  to  announce  his  readiness  to  begin  work  upon  the 
Arthur  Pearson  case,  nothing  had  been  heard  from  him. 

"You  will  not  see  me  again,"  he  had  said,  "until I  can  tell 
who  killed  Arthur  Pearson."  And  he  was  keeping  his  word. 

Four  weeks  had  passed  since  Stanhope  had  made  his  fare- 
well announcement,  and  nothing  was  known  of  his  where- 
abouts. Where  was  he  ?  What  was  he  doing  ?  What  had 
he  done  ? 

It  was  not  like  Stanhope  to  make  sweeping  statements.  In 
proffering  his  services  to  Walter  Parks,  he  had  said :  "  I'll  do 
my  level  best  for  you."  But  he  had  not  promised  to  succeed. 
Why,  then,  had  he  said,  scarce  five  days  later:  "I  shall  not 
return  until  I  have  found  the  criminal." 

What  had  he  done,  or  discovered,  or  guessed  at,  during  those 
intervening  days  ? 

Something,  it  must  have  been,  or  else — perhaps,  after  all,  it 
was  a  mere  defiance  to  Van  Vernet ;  his  way  of  announcing 
a  reckless  resolve  to  succeed  or  never  return  to  own  his  failure. 
Dick  Stanhope  was  a  queer  fellow,  and  he  had  been  sadly  cut 
up  by  Ver net's  falling  off. 

The  Chief  gave  up  the  riddle,  and  turned  to  his  desk. 

"  I  may  as  well  leave  Dick  to  his  own  devices,"  he  mut- 
tered, "  but  I'll  send  for  Vernet.  He  has  kept  shy  enough 
of  the  office  of  late,  but  I  know  where  to  put  my  hand  on 
him." 

As  he  reached  out  to  touch  the  bell,  some  one  tapped  upon 
the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  he  called,  somewhat  impatiently. 

It  was  the  office-boy  who  entered  and  presented  a  card  to 
the  "Chief. 


364  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  The  gentleman  is  waiting  ?"  queried  the  Chief,  glancing 
at  the  name  upon  the  bit  of  pasteboard. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Admit  him." 

Then  he  rose  and  stood  to  receive  his  visitor. 

"Ah,  Follingsbee,  I'm  glad  it's  you,"  extending  his  hand 
cordially.  "  Sit  down,  sit  down." 

And  he  pushed  his  guest  toward  a  big  easy  chair  just  op- 
posite his  own. 

The  little  lawyer  responded  warmly  to  his  friendly  greeting, 
established  himself  comfortably  in  the  chair  indicated,  and 
resting  a  hand  upon  either  knee,  smiled  as  he  glanced  about 
him. 

"You  seem  pretty  comfortable  here,"  he  said,  as  his  eye 
roved  about  the  well-equipped  private  office.  "Are  you  par- 
ticularly busy  just  now?" 

"  I  can  be  quite  idle,"  smiling  slightly,  "if  you  want  a  little 
of  my  leisure." 

The  attorney  gave  a  short,  dry  laugh. 

"Do  you  talk  at  everybody  over  the  top  rail  of  a  fence?" 
he  asked.  "  I  thought  that  belonged  to  us  lawyers.  The  fact 
is  that  although  this  is  not  strictly  a  social  call,  it's  a  call  of 
minor  importance.  If  you  have  business  on  hand,  I  can  wait 
your  leisure." 

The  Chief  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  smiled  across  at  his 
visitor. 

"  I  don't  suppose  you  or  I  can  ever  be  said  to  be  free  from 
business,"  he  responded.  "  I  was  just  growing  weary  of  my 
bit  of  mental  labor ;  your  interruption  is  quite  welcome,  even 
if  it  is  not '  strictly  social.'  You  are  anxious  to  make  an  infor- 
mal inquiry  about  the  search  for  the  lost  child,  I  presume  ?" 


MB.  FOLLINGSBEE'S  SOCIAL,  CALL.  365 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  anything  upon  that  subject,  but 
that  is  not  my  errand." 

"  Ah !"  The  Chief  rested  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  looked 
inquiringly  at  his  vis-a-vis. 

"  I  wanted,"  said  Mr.  Follingsbee,  taking  out  a  huge  pocket- 
book  and  deftly  abstracting  from  it  a  folded  envelope,  "  to 
show  you  a  document,  and  ask  you  a  question.  This,"  un- 
folding the  envelope,  "  is  the  document." 

He  smoothed  it  carefully  and  handed  it  to  the  other,  who 
glanced  over  it  blankly  at  first,  then  looked  closer  and  with 
an  expression  of  surprise. 

"Did  you  write  that  letter?"  queried  Mr.  Follingsbee. 

"  N-no."  He  said  it  hesitatingly,  and  with  the  surprise 
fast  turning  to  perplexity. 

"  Did  you  cause  it  to  be  written  ?" 

The  Chief  spread  the  letter  out  before  him  on  the  desk,  and 
slowly  deciphered  it. 

"It's  my  paper,  and  my  envelope,"  he  said  at  last;  "but 
it  was  never  sent  from  this  office." 

"Then  you  disown  it?" 

"Entirely.  I  hope  you  intend  to  tell  me  how  it  came  into 
your  possession." 

"  It  is  written,  as  you  see,  to  Mr.  Warburton — " 

"To  Mr.  Alan  Warburton;  yes." 

"  Introducing  one  Mr.  Grip,  late  of  Scotland  Yards." 

"  I  see." 

"Well,  sir,  Mr.  Warburton  received  this  note  the  day  on 
which  it  was  dated." 

The  Chief  glanced  sharply  at  the  date. 

"  And  on  that  same  day,  Mr.  Augustus  Grip  presented  him- 
self, stating  that  he  was  sent  from  this  Agency,  with  full  au- 


366  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

thority  to  take  such  measures  as  he  saw  fit  in  prosecuting  the 
search  for  the  lost  child." 

"Well?" 

"The  fellow  began  by  being  impertinent,  ended  by  being 
insulting — and  made  his  exit  through  the  study  window,  his 
case  closed." 

The  Chief  smiled  slightly,  then  relapsed  into  meditation. 
After  a  brief  silence,  he  said : 

"Mr.  Follingsbee,  can't  you  give  me  a  fuller  account  of 
that  interview  between  Mr.  Warburton  and  this — this  Mr. 
Grip?" 

"No,"  returns  the  lawyer,  "no;  I  can't — at  present. 
There  were  some  things  said  that  made  the  visit  a  purely  per- 
sonal affair.  The  fellow  gained  access  to  the  house  through 
making  use  of  your  name,  rather  by  seeming  to.  You  see 
by  that  scrawl  he  was  too  clever  to  actually  commit 
forgery." 

The  Chief  looked  closely  at  the  illegible  signature  and  said: 

"I  see;  sharp  rascal." 

"I  thought,"  pursued  the  lawyer,  "that  it  might  interest 
you  to  hear  of  this  affair.  The  fellow  may  try  the  trick  again, 
and—" 

"  It  does  interest  me,  sir,"  interrupts  the  other.  "  It  inter- 
ests me  very  much.  May  I  keep  this  letter?" 

"  For  the  present,  yes." 

"Thanks.  I'll  undertake  to  find  out  who  wrote  it — very 
soon.  And,  having  identified  this  impostor,  I  shall  hope  to 
hear  more  of  his  doings  at  Warburton  place." 

"For  further  information,"  said  Mr.  Follingsbee,  rising 
and  taking  up  his  hat,  "I  must  refer  you  to  Mr.  Grip,  or  Mr. 
Warburton." 


"The  Chief  looked  closely  at  the  illegible  signature,  and  said:  "I  see; 
sharp  rascal." — page  366. 

367 


368  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

And  having  finished  his  errand,  Mr.  Follingsbee  made  his 
adieu  and  withdrew. 

When  he  was  gone,  the  Chief  sat  gazing  at  the  chair  just 
vacated,  and  a  curious  smile  crossed  his  lips. 

" Follingsbee's  a  clever  lawyer,"  he  muttered;  "maybe 
that's  why  he  is  so  poor  a  witness.  There's  a  stronger  motive 
behind  his  friendly  desire  to  warn  me  of  poachers  abroad.  He 
was  in  a  greater  hurry  to  finish  his  errand  than  to  begin  it, 
and  he  was  relieved  when  it  was  done.  I  wonder,  now,  why 
he  didn't  ask  me  if  there  really  was  such  a  person  as  Augustus 
Grip!" 


CHAPTER  LI. 

VERKET   AT   HEADQUARTERS. 

After  Mr.  Follingsbee's  departure,  the  Chief  of  the  detec- 
tives took  up  his  work  just  where  he  had  laid  it  down  to  re- 
ceive his  visitor. 

Ringing  the  bell  he  summoned  the  bright-eyed  boy  who 
waited  without,  and  said,  as  soon  as  the  lad  appeared  in  the 
doorway : 

"You  know  where  to  look  for  Vernet,  George?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Go  to  him  as  soon  as  possible;  tell  him  I  wish  to  see  him 
at  his  earliest  leisure;  and  you  may  wait  a  reasonable  time, 
if  he  is  out." 

When  George  had  bowed  and  departed  on  his  mission,  the 
Chief  opened  his  door  and  entered  the  outer  office. 


VEENET    AT    HEADQUARTERS.  369 

"Has  Carnegie  been  in  to-day?"  he  asked  of  a  man  seated 
at  a  desk  between  two  tall  windows. 

"Not  yet,  sir." 

"Ah,  then  he  will  probably  come  soon.  Send  him  in  to 
me,  Sanford." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

Others  were  seated  about  the  room.     He  nodded  silently 
to  these,  and  went  over  to  one  of  the  windows  near  the  desk 
occupied  by  the  man  he  had  addressed  as  Sanford. 

For  a  few  moments  he  seemed  engaged  with  something  go- 
ing on  in  the  street  below,  then  he  moved  a  step  nearer,  and 
leaned  over  Sanford's  desk. 

"  Find  a  pretext  for  coming  to  my  room  presently,"  he  said 
in  a  low  tone.  Then  he  took  a  careless  survey  of  the  letters 
and  papers  upon  the  desk,  glanced  out  of  the  window  once 
more,  and  went  back  to  his  den. 

One  or  two  of  the  loungers  made  some  slight  comment  upon 
this  quiet  entrance  and  exit  of  their  Chief. 

But  Saiiford  wrote  on  diligently  for  many  minutes,  folding 
and  unfolding  his  letters  and  deeply  absorbed  in  his  task. 
Then  something  seemed  to  disturb  him.  He  uttered  an  im- 
patient syllable  midway  between  a  word  and  a  grunt;  read 
and  re-read  the  contents  of  a  sheet  spread  out  before  him ;  re- 
ferred once  and  again  to  his  book  ;  and  then,  seemingly,  gave 
it  up,  for  he  laid  down  his  pen — at  a  less  serious  interruption, 
he  would  have  stuck  it  behind  his  ear.  He  slid  reluctantly 
off  his  stool,  glanced  once  more  over  the  troublesome  sheet,  and 
then,  folding  it  carefully,  carried  it  with  a  rueful  face  to  the 
inner  office. 

Once  within  this  apartment,  the  look  of  rueful  reluctance 
vanished.  He  slipped  the  troublesome  document  into  his 

24 


370  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

breastpocket,  and  smiled  as  he  seated  himself  in  the  chair  in- 
dicated by  his  superior. 

"  Sanford,"  began  the  latter,  "  I  want  to  ask  about  your 
office  regulations,  rather  your  habits.  Our  boys  do  much  of 
their  letter  writing  there,  eh  ?" 

"They  do  some  of  it;  yes  sir." 

"There  is  always  stationery  at  the  desk  for  their  use?" 

"  Certainly,  sir."  Sanford's  none  too  expressive  face  be- 
gan to  lengthen  a  trifle. 

"Does  any  one  not  connected  with  the  office,  but  who  hap- 
pens in  upon  some  errand  or  some  matter  of  business,  ever 
find  it  convenient  to  write  at  the  table  or  the  desks?" 

"I  don't  think  any  one  ever  did  so,  except  in  cases  where 
the  writing  was  done  at  our  requests,  or  in  some  way  in  the 
interests  of  business." 

"  That  is  what  I  thought.  Now,  Sanford,  our  paper,  that 
which  is  intended  solely  for  business  purposes  and  which  has 
our  letter  head — is  that  accessable  to  any  one  in  the  office  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Sanford,  a  trifle  coldly  ;  "  your  orders  were 
otherwise." 

"Very  good,  Sanford.  I  am  not  about  to  find  fault  with 
you,  my  boy,  but  tell  me  if  any  one — any  one  connected  with 
the  office,  I  mean,  who  is  there  habitually,  and  is  not  supposed 
to  need  watching — could  not  one  of  our  own  people  get  pos- 
session of  a  sheet  or  two  of  our  business  tablets,  if  he  tried  ?  " 

"  If  you  mean  our  own  fellows,"  said  Sanford  slowly,  "  I 
suppose  there  are  half  a  dozen  of  our  boys  who  could  steal 
that  paper  from  under  my  very  nose,  if  they  liked,  even  if  I 
stood  on  guard.  But  no  stranger  has  access  to  my  desk,  and 
there's  no  other  way  of  getting  it  from  that  office." 

"Well,"  responded  his  Chief,  "it's  also  the  only  way  of 


VERNET  AT  HEADQUARTERS.  371 

getting  it  from  mine.     Nevertheless,  Sanford,  somebody  has 
possessed  himself  of  a  sheet  or  two,  and  used  it  for  fraudulent 


purposes." 


Sanford  stared,  but  said  nothing. 

"Now," — the  chief  grew  involuntarily  more  brisk  and 
business-like — "  we  must  clear  this  matter  up.  You  can  give 
me  samples  of  the  handwriting  of  every  one  of  our  men.  can't 
you?" 

"  I  suppose  I  can,  sir,  of  one  sort  or  another ;  letters,  re- 
ports— " 

"Samples  of  any  sort  will  do,  Sanford.  Let  me  have  them 
as  soon  as  possible." 

Sanford  arose,  hesitated,  and  then  said: 

"  If  you  would  trust  me,  sir,  I  might — but  you  have  sent 
for  Carnegie?" 

"Yes;  it's  about  this  business.  What  were  you  going  to 
say,  Sanford  ?" 

"  I  know  all  their  hands  so  well,  sir,  I  was  about  to  offer 
my  services,  but — " 

"  It's  a  good  idea ;  thank  you,  thank  you.  I  think  I'll 
give  you  both  a  chance  at  it.  Now,  bring  me  the  specimens, 
Sanford.  We  will  talk  this  over  again." 

In  half  an  hour,  Carnegie  presented  himself.  He  was  a 
small,  old  man,  with  a  shrewd  face  and  keen,  intelligent  eye. 

"I've  got  some  work  for  you,  Carnegie,"  began  the  Chief, 
waiving  all  ceremony.  "It's  of  the  kind  you  like,  too." 

"Ah!"  Carnegie  dropped  his  hat  upon  a  chair,  rubbed  his 
hands  softly  together  and  smiled  upon  his  patron,  looking  as 
if  at  that  instant  ready  and  anxious  to  pounce  upon  any  piece 
of  work  that  was  "of  the  kind  he  liked." 

"  It's  a  forgery  on  this  office,"  went  on  the  Chief,  as  quietly 


372  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

as  if  he  had  said,  it's  an  invitation  to  tea.  "And  you'll  have 
a  variety  of  handwritings  to  gloat  over ;  Sanford  is  looking 
them  up." 

"Ah!"  said  Carnegie,  and  that  was  all.  Some  men  could 
not  have  said  more  in  a  folio. 

As  Carnegie  passed  out  of  the  Chief's  office,  the  boy,  George, 
entered  it.  He  had  found  Mr.  Vernet,  and  that  gentleman 
would  present  himself  right  away. 

And  he  did,  almost  at  the  heels  of  his  herald ;  scrupulously 
dressed,  upright,  handsome,  and  courteous  as  usual. 

Perfectly  aware  as  he  was  that  his  Chief  had  not  summoned 
him  there  without  a  motive,  and  tolerably  sure  that  this  motive 
was  out  of  the  regular  business  routine,  his  countenance  was 
as  serene  as  if  he  were  entering  a  ball-room,  his  manner  just 
as  calm  and  courtly. 

"I  hope  I  have  not  interfered  with  any  mano3uvre  of 
yours,  Van,"  said  the  Chief,  smiling  as  he  proffered  his 
hand. 

"  Not  at  all,  sir.  I  was  just  in  and  preparing  for  an  hour 
or  two  of  rest."  And  'Vernet  pressed  the  outstretched  hand. 
"I  am  glad  of  this  opportunity,  sir." 

"The  fact  is — "  began  the  Chief,  after  Vernet  had  en- 
sconced himself  in  the  chair  opposite  his  own — "  the  fact  is, 
1  want  to  talk  over  this  Englishman's  business  a  little,  in  a 
confidential  way." 

"Yes  ?"  The  change  that  crossed  Vernet's  face  was  scarcely 
perceptible. 

"You  see,  just  between  us,  I  have  no  report  from  Stanhope, 
and  none  from  you.  And  I  want,  very  much,  to  get  some 
new  idea  on  the  subject,  soon." 

Vernet  scanned  his  face  for  a  moment^  then: 


VERNET  AT  HEADQUARTERS.  373 

"You  have  heard  something/'  he  said,  withdrawing  his 
gaze  slowly. 

The  Chief  laughed.  This  answer,  put  not  as  a  question,  but 
as  a  statement  of  a  fact,  pleased  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  have  heard  something.  The  English- 
man is  coming  back.  I  have  a  letter  from  him.  It  is  some- 
what mysterious,  but  it  says  that  he  is  on  his  way  here,  accom- 
panied by  one  John  Ainsworth." 

"John  Ainsworth?" 

"Supposed  to  be  the  father  of  the  child  mentioned  in  the 
advertisement  from  Australia," 

"Yes;  I  see." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  anything  clearly,  except  this  :  These  two 
men  will  come  down  upon  us  presently ;  they  will  want  to 
hear  something  new — " 

"Their  affair  is  twenty  years  old ;  do  they  expect  us  to  get 
to  the  bottom  of  it  in  five  weeks?" 

^"Well,  not  that  exactly,  but  I  think  they  will  expect  us  to 
have  organized — to  have  hit  upon  some  theory  and  plan  of 
action." 

"Oh,"  said  Vernet,  "as  to  that,  I  have  my  theory — but  it 
is  for  my  private  benefit  as  yet.  As  to  what  I  have  done,  it 
is  not  much,  but  it  is — " 

"Something?  a  step?" 

"  Yes ;  it  is  a  step.  I  have  found,  or  I  know  where  to 
find,  one  of  the  ten  men  who  composed  that  Marais  des 
Cygnes  party." 

"Good !  I  call  that  more  than  a  step." 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  I  have  worked  through  a 
'tracker.'  You  know  how  much  I  am  interested  in  that  other 
affair." 

"The  Sailor  business?  yes." 


374  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"It  seemed  to  me,"  continued  Vernet,  "that  I  might  suc- 
ceed there  by  doing  the  hard  work  myself,  and  that  this  other 
matter,  in  its  present  stage,  might  be  worked  out  by  an  intel- 
ligent '  inquirer.'  So  I  adopted  this  plan.  I  think  my  mur- 
der case  is  almost  closed.  I  hope  to  have  my  hand  upon  the 
fellow  soon.  Then  I  can  give  all  my  time  to  this  other  case." 

"So!"  gazing  admiringly  at  the  handsome  face  opposite 
him.  "I'm  glad  of  your  success,  Van.  I  suppose,  at  the 
right  time,  you  will  let  me  into  the  '  true  inwardness'  of  the 
Sailor  business  ?" 

"  I  should  have  been  under  obligation  to  do  that  long  ago, 
if  you  had  not  been  so  good  as  to  leave  it  all  to  my  discretion." 

"True.  AVell,  I  find  that  it's  not  unsafe  to  leave  these 
things  to  you  and  Stanhope.  You  both  work  best  untram- 
melled. Has  this  fellow  given  you  much  trouble?" 

Vernet  smiled.  "  Plenty  of  it,"  he  said.  "But  in  playing 
his  last  trick,  he  bungled.  He  had  dodged  me  beautifully, 
and  had  left  me  under  the  impression  that  he  had  sailed  for 
Europe." 

"Ah!" 

"Of  course  I  wired  to  the  other  side.  He  had  sailed  in 
company  with  a  lady,  handsome  and  young.  He  was  also 
good-looking  and  a  young  man." 

"Well?" 

"  When  the  two  arrived  on  the  other  side,  they  turned  out 
to  be — an  old  man  aged  sixty-five,  and  a  child,  aged  ten." 

"  Oh !"  said  the  Chief,  as  though  he  enjoyed  the  situation ; 
"a  clever  rascal !" 

"  Well,  I  know  where  to  look  for  him  now — when  I  need 
him.  I  want  to  rundown  an  important  witness;  then  I  shall 
make  the  arrest." 


THE  VERDICT  OF  AN  EXPERT.  376 

"Good!  We  will  have  the  particulars  at  that  time.  And 
now  about  this  Englishman's  case;  put  what  your  ' tracker* 
has  done  into  a  report — or  do  you  intend  to  work  in  the  dark, 
like  Stan  hope?" 

"  Ah,  what  is  Stanhope  about  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  He  took  his  time ;  has  not  been  seen  or 
heard  of  here  for  four  weeks." 

Vernet  tapped  the  desk  beside  him,  and  looked  thoughtfully 
at  his  vis-a-vis. 

"Stanhope's  a  queer  fish,"  he  said  abstractedly;  "a  queer 
fish."  Then,  rising,  he  added:  "I  will  send  my  report  to- 
morrow." 

"Very  good." 

"And  I  shall  not  follow  Stanhope's  example.  Once  I  am 
fairly  entered  into  the  case,  I  shall  send  my  reports  regularly." 

"I'm  glad  of  that,"  said  his  Chief,  rising  and  following  him 
to  the  door.  "  Under  the  circumstances,  I'm  glad  of  that." 


CHAPTER  LII. 

THE  VERDICT  OP  AN  EXPERT. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  following  that  on  whieh 
Carnegie  the  Expert  had  received  his  commission  from  -tljie 
Chief  of  the  detectives,  he  appeared  again  in  the  presence  of 
that  personage. 

He  carried  his  "documents"  in  a  small  packet,  which  he 
laid  upon  the  desk,  and  he  turned  upon  the  Chief  a  face  as 
cheerful  and  as  full  of  suppresed  activity  as  usual. 


376  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Well?"  queried  the  Chief,  glancing  down  at  the  packet, 
"have  you  done?" 

"  Yes ;"  beginning  to  open  the  packet  with  quick,  nervous 
fingers. 

"And  you  found — "  He  paused  and  looked  up  at  the  Ex- 
pert. 

Carnegie  took  from  the  packet  the  letter  addressed  to  Alan 
Warburton,  and  written  in  the  scrawling,  unreadable  hand. 
This  he  spread  open  upon  the  desk.  Then  he  took  another 
letter,  written  in  an  elegant  hand,  and  with  various  vigorous 
ornamental  flourishes.  This  he  laid  beside  the  first,  pushing 
the  remaining  letters  carelessly  aside  as  if  they  were  of  no  im- 
portance. 

"I  find — "  he  said,  looking  hard  at  the  Chief,  and  putting 
one  forefinger  upon  the  elegant  bit  of  penmanship,  the  other 
upon  the  unreadable  scrawl ; — "  I  find  that  these  two  were 
written  by  the  same  hand." 

The  Chief  leaned  forward;  he  had  not  been  able  to  see  the 
writing  from  the  place  in  which  he  sat.  He  leaned  closer  and 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  two  signatures.  The  one  he  had  seen 
before;  the  other  was  signed — Vernet. 

Slowly  he  withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  signature,  and  turned 
them  upon  the  face  of  the  Expert. 

"Carnegie,"  he  asked,  "do  you  ever  make  a  mistake?" 

"If  Carnegie's  look  said  the  rest. 

"Because,"  went  on  the  Chief,  scarcely  noticing  Carnegie's 
indignant  exclamation,  "  if  you  ever  made  a  mistake,  I  should 
say,  I  should  wish  to  believe,  that  this  was  one." 

"It's  no  mistake,"  replied  the  Expert  grimly.  "I  never 
saw  a  clearer  case." 

The  Chief  passed  his  hand  across  his  brow,  and  seemed  to 


"Carnegie,  do  you  ever  make  a  mistake?" — page  376. 

377 


3V3  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

meditate,  while  the  Expert  gathered  up  the  heap  of  letters  and 
arranged  them  once  more  into  a  neat  packet. 

"If  you  are  still  in  doubt,"  he  said  tartly,  "you  might  try 
— somebody  else." 

"  No,  no,  Carnegie,"  replied  the  Chief,  rousing  himself, 
"you  are  right,  no  doubt.  You  must  be  right." 

Carnegie  snapped  a  rubber  band  about  the  newly-arranged 
packet,  and  tossed  it  down  beside  the  two  letters. 

"Then/'  he  said,  taking  up  his  hat,  "  I  suppose  you  have 
no  further  use  for  me?" 

"  Not  at  present,  Carnegie." 

The  Expert  turned  sharply,  and  without  further  ceremony 
whisked  out  of  the  room. 

For  some  moments  the  Chief  sat  wrinkling  his  brow  and 
gazing  upon  the  two  letters  outspread  before  him. 

Then  he  took  up  the  elegantly-written  epistle,  folded 
it  carefully,  and  thrust  it  in  among  those  in  the  rubber- 
Jbound  packet.  This  done  he  rang  his  bell,  and  called  for 
Sanford. 

The  latter  came  promptly,  and  stood  mutely  before  his 
Chief. 

"Sanford,"  said  that  gentleman,  pointing  to  the  packet 
upon  the  table,  "  you  may  try  your  hand  as  an  Expert." 

"  How,  sir?" 

"  Take  those  letters,  and  this,"  pushing  forward  the  out- 
spread scrawl,  "and  see  if  you  can  figure  out  who  wrote 
it." 

Sanford  took  up  the  packet,  looked  earnestly  at  his  superior, 
and  hesitated. 

"Carnegie  has  given  his  opinion,"  said  the  Chief,  iu. answer 
to  this  look.  "  I  want  to  see  how  you  agree." 


VERDICT  OF  AN  EXPERT.  379 

Sanford  took  up  the  scrawl,  scanned  it  slowly,  folded  it  and 
slipped  it  underneath  the  rubber  of  the  packet. 

"Is  that  all,  sir?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"  That  is  all.     Take  your  time,  Sanford ;  take  your  time." 

Sanford  bowed  and  went  slowly  from  the  room. 

A  few  moments  longer  the  Chief  sat  thinking,  a  look  of  an- 
noyance upon  his  face.  Then  he  slowly  arose,  unlocked  a 
drawer,  and  taking  from  it  a  small,  thick  diary,  reseated  him- 
self. 

"I  must  review  this  business,"  he  muttered.  "There's 
something  about  it  that  I  don't — quite — understand." 

He  turned  the  leaves  of  the  diary  quickly,  running  the  pages 
backward,  until  he  reached  those  containing  an  account  of  the 
events  of  one  or  two  days  five  weeks  old  upon  the  calendar. 
Here  he  singled  out  the  notes  concerning  the  Raid  and  its 
results,  following  which  were  the  outlines  of  the  accounts  of 
that  night  as  given  him  by  Vernet  and  Stanhope. 

Now,  in  giving  his  account  of  that  night,  Van  Vernet  had 
said  little  of  his  experience  with  Alan  Warburton,  and  at  the 
masquerade.  And  in  giving  his  account  of  the  Raid  and  its 
failure,  he  had  omitted  the  fact  that  he  had  accepted  and  used 
"Silly  Charlie"  as  a  guide,  speaking  of  him  only  as  a  spy  and 
rescuer.  Hence  the  Chief  had  gained  anything  but  a  correct 
idea  of  the  part  actually  played  by  this  bogus  idiot. 

On  the  other  hand,  Stanhope  had  described  at  length  the 
events  of  the  masquerade,  as  they  related  to  himself,  but  had 
said  little  concerning  Leslie  and  the  nature  of  the  service  she 
required  of  him,  referring  to  her  only  as  Mr.  Follingsbee's 
client.  He  had  related  his  misad  ventures  with  the  Troubadour 
and  the  Chinaman,  leaving  upon  their  shoulders  the  entire 
blame  of  his  failure  and  non-appearance  at  the  Raid.  And  he 


380  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

had  never  once  mentioned  Vernet's  presence,  nor  the  part  the 
latter  had  played  to  gain  the  precedence  with  his  Chief. 

In  thus  ommitting  important  facts,  each  had  his  motive; 
and  the  omissions  had  not,  at  the  time,  been  noted  by  the 
Chief.  Now,  however,  as  he  read  and  re-read  his  memoranda 
— recalling  to  mind  how  he  had  shared  with  Vernet  his  chagrin 
at  the  failure  of  the  Raid,  and  laughed  with  Stanhope  over 
his  comical  mishaps — he  seemed  to  read  something  between 
the  lines,  and  his  face  grew  more  and  more  perplexed  as  he 
closed  the  diary,  and  sat  intently  thinking. 

"  There's  a  mystery  here  that  courts  investigation/'  he  mut- 
tered, as  he  arose  at  last  and  put  away  the  diary.  "  I'd  give 
something,  now,  for  twenty  minutes'  talk  with  Dick  Stanhope." 

Early  on  the  following  morning,  Sanford  presented  himself 
before  his  Chief,  the  bundle  of  letters  in  his  hand,  and  a 
troubled  look  upon  his  face. 

"Well,  Sanford,  is  it  done?" 

"I  wish,"  said  Sanford,  as  he  placed  the  packet  upon  the 
table,  "  I  wish  it  had  never  been  begun — at  least  by  me." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  don't  want  to  believe  the  evidence  of  my  senses." 

"  There's  a  sentiment  for  a  detective !  Out  with  it  man ; 
what  have  you  found  ?" 

Sanford  took  two  papers  from  his  pocket  and  held  them  in 
his  hand  irresolutely. 

"  I  hope  I  am  wrong,"  he  said ;  "  if  I  am — " 

"  If  you  are,  it  will  rest  between  us  two.  Out  with  it, 
now." 

"There's  only  one  man  among  us  that  I  can  trace  this  letter 
to,"  beginning  to  unfold  the  troublesome  scrawl,  "  and  he — " 
He  opened  the  second  paper  and  laid  it  before  his  Chief. 


JOHN  AINS WORTH'S  STORY.  381 

The  latter  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  vexatious  paper  and  said, 
mechanically :  "  Vernet !" 

"  I'm  sorry,"  began  Sanford,  regretfully.     "  I  tried — " 

"  You  need  not  be/'  interrupted  the  Chief.  "  It's  Carnegie's 
verdict  too." 

Sauford  sat  down  in  the  nearest  seat,  and  looked  earnestly 
at  his  Chief,  saying  nothing. 

After  a  moment  of  silence,  the  latter  said : 

"Sanford,  I  want  Vernet  shadowed." 

Sanford  started  and  looked  as  if  he  doubted  his  own  ears. 

"  I  don't  want  him  interfered  with,"  went  on  the  Chief 
slowly,  "and  watching  him  will  be  a  delicate  job;  but  I  wish 
it  done.  I  want  to  be  informed  of  every  move  he  makes. 
You  must  manage  this  business.  I  shall  depend  upon  you." 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

JOHN  AINSWORTH'S  STORY. 

The  Chief  of  the  detectives  was  now  furnished  with  ample 
food  for  thought,  but  the  opportunity  for  meditation  seemed 
remote. 

While  he  sat  pondering  over  the  discovery  of  Carnegie  and 
Sanford,  two  visitors  were  announced:  Walter  Parks,  the; 
English  patron  of  Stanhope  and  Vernet,  and  John  Ainsworth, 
the  returned  Australian. 

An  accident  of  travel  had  thrown  these  two  together,  almost 
at  the  moment  when  one  was  landing  from,  and  the  other 


382  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

about  to  embark  for,  Australia.  And  the  name  of  John  Ains- 
worth,  boldly  displayed  upon  some  baggage  just  set  on  shore, 
had  put  Walter  Parks  on  the  scent  of  its  owner.  The  two 
men  were  not  slow  in  understanding  each  other. 

As  they  now  sat  in  the  presence  of  the  Chief,  these  two  men 
with  faces  full  of  earnestness  and  strength,  he  mentally  pro- 
nounced them  fine  specimens  of  bronzed  and  bearded  middle 
age. 

Walter  Parks  was  tall  and  athletic,  without  one  ounce  of 
flesh  to  spare :  with  dark  features,  habitually  stern  in  their 
expression;  a  firm  chin,  and  well-developed  upper  cranium, 
that  made  it  easy  for  one  to  comprehend  how  naturally  and 
obstinately  the  man  might  cling  to  an  idea,  or  continue  a  search, 
for  more  than  twice  twenty  years ;  and  how  impossible  it 
would  be  for  him  to  abandon  the  one  or  lose  his  enthusiasm 
for  the  other. 

John  Ainsworth  was  cast  in  a  different  mould.  Less  tall 
than  the  Englishman,  and  of  fuller  proportions,  his  face  was 
not  wanting  in  strength,  but  it  lacked  the  rugged  outlines  that 
distinguished  the  face  of  the  other ;  his  once  fair  hair  was  al- 
most white,  and  his  regular  features  wore  a  look  of  habitual 
melancholy.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  who,  having  lost  some 
great  good  out  of  his  life,  can  never  forget  what  that  life  might 
have  been,  had  this  good  gift  remained. 

"  I  received  your  letter,"  the  Chief  said,  after  a  brief  ex- 
change of  formalities,  "  but  I  failed  to  understand  it,  Mr. 
Parks,  and  was  finally  forced  to  conclude  that  you  may  have 
written  a  previous  one — " 

"  I  did,"  interrupted  the  Englishman. 

"Which  I  never  received,"  finished  the  Chief.  "I  sup- 
posed you  voyaging  toward  Australia,  if  not  already  there," 


JOHN  AINSWORTH'S  STORY.  383 

"  I  wrote  first,"  said  Walter  Parks,  "  to  notify  you  of  our 
accidental  meeting,  and  that  we  would  set  out  immediately  for 
this  city.  And  I  wrote  again  to  tell  you  of  Mr.  Ainsworth's 
sudden  illness,  and  our  necessary  delay." 

"  Those  two  letters  I  never  saw." 

"  I  shall  be  sorry  for  that,"  broke  in  John  Ainsworth,  "  if 
their  loss  will  cause  us  delay,  or  you  inconvenience." 

"The  non-arrival  of  those  two  letters  has  made  the  third 
something  of  a  riddle  to  me,"  said  the  Chief.  "But  that  be- 
ing now  solved,  I  think  no  further  mischief  has  been  or  will 
be  done." 

Then  followed  further  explanations  concerning  the  meeting 
of  the  two,  and  John  Aiusworth's  fever,  which,  following  his 
ocean  voyage,  made  a  delay  in  San  Francisco  necessary. 

"  It  was  a  tedious  illness  to  me ;  said  the  Australian. 
"  Short  as  it  was,  it  seemed  never-ending." 

And  then,  at  the  request  of  the  Chief,  John  Ainsworth  told 
his  story:  briefly,  but  with  sufficient  clearness. 

"  I  was  a  young  man,"  he  said,  "  and  filled  with  the  spirit 
of  adventure,  when  I  went  West,  taking  my  youthful  wife  with 
me.  It  was  a  hard  life  for  a  woman ;  but  it  was  her  wish  to 
go  and,  indeed,  I  would  have  left  her  behind  me  very  unwil- 
lingly. We  prospered  in  the  mining  country.  My  wife  en- 
joyed the  novelty  of  our  new  life,  and  we  began  to  gather 
about  us  the  comforts  of  a  home.  Then  little  Lea  was  born." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  sighed  heavily. 

"  My  wife  was  never  well  again.  She  drooped  and  faded. 
When  Lea  was  six  mouths  old,  she  died,  and  I  buried  her  at 
the  foot  of  her  favorite  mountain.  I  put  my  baby  into  the 
care  of  one  of  the  women  of  the  settlement — it  was  the  best  I 
do, — and  I  lived  on  as  I  might.  But  the  place  grew 


384  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

hateful  to  me.  There  was  one  man  among  the  rest  whose 
friendship  I  prized,  and  after  the  loss  of  my  wife  I  clung  to 
him  as  if  he  were  of  my  own  blood.  His  name  was  Arthur 
Pearson." 

Again  the  narrator  paused,  and  the  eyes  of  the  two  listen- 
ers instinctively  sought  each  other. 

"  Pearson  was  younger  than  I,  and  was  never  rugged  like 
most  of  the  men  who  lived  that  wild  life.  And  after  a  time  I 
saw  that  he,  too,  was  failing.  He  grew  thin  and  began  to 
cough  dismally.  Pearson  was  very  fond  of  my  baby  girl;  and 
sometimes  we  would  sit  and  talk  of  her  future,  and  wish  her 
away  from  that  place,  where  she  must  grow  up  without  the 
knowledge  and  graces  of  refined  civilization. 

"As  Pearson  became  worse,  he  began  to  talk  of  going  back 
to  the  States,  and  much  as  I  would  miss  him,  I  strongly  ad- 
vised him  to  go.  At  last  when  he  had  fully  decided  to  do  so, 
he  made  me  a  proposition:  If  I  would  trust  my  baby  to  him, 
he  would  take  her  back  and  put  her  in  the  care  of  my  sister,  who 
had  no  children  of  her  own,  and  who  was  just  the  one  to  make 
of  little  Lea  all  that  a  woman  should  be.  I  knew  how  gladly 
she  would  watch  over  my  daughter,  and  after  I  had  thought 
upon  the  matter,  I  decided  to  send  Lea  to  her,  under  the 
guardianship  of  Pearson.  As  I  look  back,  I  can  see  my 
selfishness.  I  should  have  gone  with  Arthur  and  the  child. 
But  my  grief  was  too  fresh ;  I  could  not  bear  to  turn  my  face 
homeward  alone.  I  wanted  change  and  absorbing  occupation, 
and  I  had  already  decided  to  dispose  of  my  mining  interest, 
and  go  to  Australia. 

"I  found  a  nurse  for  my  baby  girl;  a  woman  in  our  little 
community,  who  had  lost  her  husband  iji  a  mine  explosion  a 
few  mouths  before.  She  was  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  return 


JOHN  AINSWORTH'S  STORY.  385 

to  her  friends,  and  I  felt  sure  that  I  could  trust  her  with  Lea. 
So  they  set  out  for  the  East,  and  I  made  preparations  for  my 
journey,  while  waiting  to  hear  that  Pearson  and  the  train 
were  safely  beyond  the  mountains  and  most  dangerous 
passes. 

"  They  had  been  gone  some  two  weeks  when  a  train  came 
in  from  the  East,  and  among  them  was  Mrs.  Marsh,  the  nurse. 
The  two  trains  had  met  just  beyond  the  range,  and  Mrs.  Marsh 
had  found  among  the  emigrants  some  of  her  friends  and  towns- 
people. The  attraction  was  strong  enough  to  cause  her  to 
turn  about,  and  I  may  as  well  dispose  of  her  at  once  by 
saying  that  she  shortly  after  married  one  of  her  new-found 
friends. 

"She  told  me  that  Pearson  had  joined  a  train  which  crossed 
their  trail  the  morning  after  the  meeting  of  the  first  two  parties, 
and  before  they  had  broken  camp.  This  train  was  going 
-through  by  the  shortest  route,  as  fast  as  possible;  and  Pearson 
had  found  among  the  women  one  who  would  take  charge  of 
little  Lea.  She  brought  me  a  letter  from  him." 

"Did  you  preserve  the  letter  ?"  interrupted  the  Chief. 

"I  did;  it  has  never  been  out  of  my  possession,  for  it  was 
the  last  I  ever  heard  of  Pearson  or  my  little  Lea,  until — "  He 
paused  and  glanced  toward  the  Englishman. 

"Until  you  met  Mr.  Parks?"  supplemented  the  Chief. 

"Yes." 

"I  should  like  to  see  that  letter,"  said  the  Chief. 

The  Australian  took  from  his  breast  an  ample  packet,  and 
from  its  contents  extracted  a  worn  and  faded  paper.  As  he 
handed  it  to  the  Chief  there  was  a  touch  of  pathos  in  his 
voice. 

"  It  is  more  than  twenty  years  old,"  he  said. 

23 


386  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

The  writing  was  in  a  delicate,  scholarly  hand,  much  faded, 
yet  legible. 

DEAR  AINS  WORTH 

I  suppose  Mrs.  Marsh  has  made  you  acquainted  with  her  reasons 
for  changing  her  plans.     It  remains  for  me  to  inform  you  of  mine. 

Our  train,  as  you  know,  is  not  precisely  select,  and  as  we  advance 
towards  "God's  Country"  the  roystering  ones  become  a  little  too  reck- 
less for  my  quiet  taste.  The  train  from  the  North  is  led  by  one  Walter 
Parks,  an  Englishman,  of  whom  I  know  a  little,  and  that  little  all  in 
his  favor.  The  others  are  quiet,  sturdy  fellows,  of  the  sort  I  like.  The 
woman  who  will  care  for  little  Lea  is  a  Mrs.  Krutzer;  a  very  good 
woman  she  seems.  She  is  going  East  with  her  husband,  who  has  the 
rheumatism  and,  so  they  tell  me,  a  decided  objection  to  hard  labor.  She 
has  a  little  boy,  some  six  years  older  than  Lea,  and  she  seems  glad  to 
earn  something  by  watching  over  our  pet. 

We  are  almost  out  of  the  "  Danger  Country."  There  is  little  to  dread 
between  this  and  the  Marais  des  Cygnes,  and  once  we  have  crossed  that, 
there  will  be  nothing  to  fear  from  the  Indians.  Still,  to  make  little 
Lea's  safety  doubly  sure,  I  shall  at  once  tell  Mrs.  Krutzer  her  history, 
and  give  her  instructions  how  to  find  Lea's  relatives  should  some  calam- 
ity overtake  me  before  the  journey  ends. 

I  will  at  once  put  into  Mrs.  Krutzer's  hands  your  letter  to  your  sister, 
together  with  the  packet,  and  money  enough  to  carry  her  to  her  des- 
tination. Having  done  this,  I  can  only  watch  over  the  little  one  as  you 
would,  were  you  here,  and  trust  the  rest  to  a  merciful  Providence. 

May  your  Australian  venture  prosper!     I  will  write  you  there;  and 

may  the  good  God  have  us  all  in  his  keeping! 

Yours  as  ever, 

A.  PEARSON. 

This  was  the  letter  that  the  Chief  perused  with  a  face  of  un- 
usual gravity;  and  then  he  asked,  as  he  laid  it  down: 
"And  your  child:  you  have  never  heard  of  her  since?" 
"Never.     I  was  always  a  poor  correspondent,  but  I  wrote 
many  letters  to   my  sister,  to  her  husband,  and  to   Pearson. 
They  were  not  answered.     The  Ulimans  were  rising  people, 


JOHN  AINSWORTH'S  STORY.  387 

and  they  had  left  their  old  residence,  no  doubt.  So  I  reasoned, 
and  I  worked  on.  After  a  time  I  was  sick — a  long  tedious 
illness.  When  I  recovered,  and  asked  for  letters,  they  told 
me  that  during  my  illness  some  had  arrived,  and  had  been 
lost  or  mislaid.  Then  I  assured  myself  that  these  were  from 
Pearson  and  my  sister ;  that  my  little  one  was  safe ;  and  I 
settled  down  to  my  new  life.  Every  year  I  planned  a  return, 
and  every  year  I  waited  until  the  next,  in  order  to  take  with 
me  a  larger  fortune  for  little  Lea.  I  became  selfishly  absorbed 
in  money-getting.  Then,  as  years  went  by,  and  I  knew  my 
girl  was  budding  into  womanhood,  I  longed  anew  for  tidings 
of  her.  I  wrote  again,  and  again ;  and  then  I  set  my  lawyer 
at  the  task.  He  wrote,  and  he  advertised ;  and  at  last  I  set- 
.tled  my  affairs  out  there  and  started  for  the  United  States. 
An  advertisement,  asking  news  of  Pearson  or  Lea  Ainsworth, 
was  sent  to  a  city  paper  only  a  week  before  I  sailed,  and  it 
was  this  that  caught  the  eye  of  Mr.  Parks  here." 

Again  the  Chief  and  Walter  Parks  exchanged  glances,  and 
John  Ainsworth  rose  slowly  to  his  feet. 

"  Sir,"  he  said  in  a  husky  voice,  "  Mr.  Parks  has  offered  a 
fortune  to  the  man  who  discovers  the  slayer  of  Arthur  Pearson. 
I  offer  no  less  for  the  recovery  of  my  child." 

The  Chief  shook  his  head. 

"  That  search,"  he  said,  "  like  the  other,  must  cover  twenty 
years." 

"To  begin,"  said  the  Australian,  "we  must  find  the 
Ulimans." 

"Who?" 

"  The  Ulimans ;  my  sister  was  the  wife  of  Thomas  Uliman." 

"  Oh !"  said  the  Chief,  and  then  he  leaned  forward  and 
touched  the  bell? 


388  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Send  Sanford  in/'  he  said  to  the  boy  who  appeared  in  the 
doorway. 

In  another  moment  Sanford  stood  before  them. 

"Sanford,"  said  his  Chief,  "  Thomas  Uliman  and  wife, 
residents  here  twenty  years  ago,  are  to  be  found.  Have  the 
records  searched,  and  if  necessary  take  other  steps.  Stop: 
what  was  the  calling  of  this  Thomas  Uliman?" 

"Merchant,"  said  John  Ainsworth. 

Sanford  started  suddenly,  and  lifted  one  hand  to  his  mouth. 

"  I  wonder — "  he  began,  and  then  checked  himself,  bowed, 
and  turned  toward  the  door.  "  Had  this  gentleman  a  middle 
name?"  he  asked,  with  his  hand  upon  the  latch. 

"Yes;  it  was  R.,  I  believe;  Thomas  R.  Uliman/'  replied 
the  Australian. 

Sanford  bowed  again  and  went  out  quietly.  Then  Mr. 
Ainsworth  turned  toward  the  Chief. 

"You  have  a  system?"  he  queried. 

"Yes;  a  very  simple  and  effectual  one.  We  keep  the  census 
reports,  the  directories,  and  a  death  record.  When  these  fail, 
we  have  other  resources;  but  we  usually  get  at  least  a  clue 
from  these  books.  This  part  of  the  work  is  simple  enough. 
By  to-morrow  I  think  we  can  give  you  some  information  about 
Thomas  Uliman." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Walter  Parks  leaned 
forward : 

"Have  you  anything  to  tell  me  concerning  my  two  detec- 
tives?" he  asked. 

"  Stanhope  and  Vernet?  Well,  not  much  ;  but  I  expect  a 
report  from  Vernet  at  any  moment.  We  will  have  that  also 
to-morrow." 


A  CHIEF'S  PERPLEXITIES.  389 


CHAPTER  LIV. 
A  CHIEF'S  PERPLEXITIES. 

On  Wednesday,  the  day  following  that  which  witnessed  the 
arrival  of  Walter  Parks  and  John  Ains  worth,  Mr.  Follings- 
bee,  seated  at  a  late  breakfast,  perused  a  letter,  which,  judging 
from  the  manner  .of  its  reception,  must  have  contained  some- 
thing unusual  and  interesting. 

He  read  it,  re-read  it,  and  read  it  again.  Then  pushing 
back  his  chair,  and  leaving  his  repast  half  finished,  he  hurried 
from  the  breakfast-room,  and  up  stairs,  straight  to  that  cosey 
room  which,  for  many  days,  had  been  occupied  by  a  guest 
never  visible  below.  This  guest  had  also  recently  turned 
away  from  a  dainty  breakfast,  the  fragments  of  which  yet  re- 
mained upon  the  small  table  at  his  elbow,  and  he  was  now 
perusing  the  morning  paper  with  the  bored  look  of  a  man 
who  reads  only  to  kill  time. 

He  glanced  up  as  the  lawyer  entered,  but  did  not  rise. 

"Well,"  began  his  visitor,  "at  last  I  have  something  to 
wake  you  up  with  :  orders  to  march." 

He  held  in  his  hand  the  open  letter,  and  standing  directly 
in  front  of  the  other,  read  out  its  contents  with  the  tone  and 
manner  of  a  man  pronouncing  his  own  vindication  after  a  long- 
suffering  silence : 

DEAR  SIR: 

At  last  you  may  release  your  voluntary  prisoner.     It  is  best  that  he 
return  at  once  to  W place.     Let  him  go  quietly  and  without  fear. 


390  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

By  afternoon  there  may  be  other  arrivals,  whom  he  will  be  glad  to  wel- 
come.    For  yourself,  be  at  the  Chief's  office  this  day  at  4.  P.  M. 

STANHOPE. 

The  reader  paused  and  looked  triumphantly  at  his  audience 
of  one. 

"So,"  commented  this  audience,  "his  name  is  Stanhope." 

Mr.  Follingsbee  started  and  then  laughed. 

"I  don't  think  he  cared  to  keep  his  identity  from  you 
longer,"  he  said,  "  otherwise  he  would  not  have  signed  his 
name.  I  think  this  means  that  the  play  is  about  to  end" — 
tapping  the  letter  lightly  with  his  two  fingers.  "You  have 
heard  of  Dick  Stanhope,  I  take  it?" 

"Stanhope,  the  detective?  Yes;  and  I  am  somewhat  puz- 
zled. I  have  always  heard  of  Stanhope  in  connection  with 
Van  Vernet." 

"Uniph!  so  has  everybody.  They're  on  opposite  sides  of 
this  case,  however.  Well,  shall  you  follow  Mr.  Stanhope's 
advice?" 

"I  shall,  although  his  advice  reads  much  like  a  command. 
I  shall  take  him  at  his  word,  and  go  at  once." 

"Now?" 

"  This  very  hour,  if  your  carriage  is  at  my  disposal." 

"  That,  of  course." 

"I  feel  like  a  puppet  in  invisible  hands" — rising  and  mov- 
ing nervously  about — "  but,  having  pledged  myself  to  accept 
the  guidance  of  this  eccentric  detective,  I  will  do  my  part." 

"Well,"  said  the  lawyer  dryly,  "you  seem  in  a  desperate 
hurry.  Be  sure  you  don't  overdo  it." 

"I  won't;  I'll  go  home  and  wait  for  what  is  to  happen  in 
the  afternoon." 

Half  an  hour  thereafter,  a  carriage  drew  up  at  the  side  en- 


A  CHIEF'S  PERPLEXITIES.  391 

trance  of  the  WarburtoD  mansion,,  and  a  gentleman  leaped  out, 
ran  lightly  up  the  steps,  opened  the  door  with  a  latch-key  held 
ready  in  his  hand,  and  disappeared  within.  The  carriage 
rolled  away  the  moment  its  occupant  had  alighted. 

In  another  moment,  a  man,  Avho  had  been  lounging  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street,  faced  about  slowly,  and  sauntered 
along  until  he  reached  the  street  corner.  Turning  here  he 
quickened  his  pace,  increasing  his  speed  as  he  went,  until  his 
rapid  walk  became  a  swift  run  just  as  he  turned  the  second 
corner. 

At  ten  o'clock  of  this  same  morning,  the  Chief  of  the  de- 
tectives is  sitting  again  in  his  sanctum,  his  brow  knit  and 
frowning,  his  hands  tapping  nervously  upon  the  arms  of  his 
easy  chair,  his  whole  mind  absorbed  in  intensest  thought. 
Usually  he  meets  the  problems  that  come  to  him  with  im- 
perturbable calm,  and  looks  them  down  and  through ;  but  to- 
day the  thought  that  he  faces  is  so  disagreeable,  so  perplexing, 
so  baffling, — and  it  will  not  be  looked  down,  nor  thought 
down. 

Up  to  the  date  of  this  present  perplexity,  he  has  found 
himself  equal  to  all  the  emergencies  of  his  profession.  Living 
in  a  domain  of  Mysteries,  he  has  been  himself  King  of  them 
all;  has  held  in  his  hand  the  clue  to  each.  His  men  may 
have  worked  in  the  dark,  or  with  only  a  fragment  of  light,  a 
glimmer  of  the  truth,  to  guide  them.  But  he,  their  Chief,  has 
overlooked  their  work,  seeing  beyond  their  range  of  vision, 
and  through  it,  to  the  end. 

Always  this  had  been  the  case  until — yes,  he  would  ac- 
knowledge the  truth — until  this  all-demanding  Englishman 
had  swooped  down  upon  him  with  his  old,  old  mystery,  and 
taken  from  the  Agency,  for  his  own  eccentric  uses,  its  two 


392  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

best  men.  Always,  until  Van  Vernet  and  Richard  Stanhope 
had  arrayed  themselves  as  antagonists,  in  seeking  a  solution  of 
the  same  problem. 

Following  up  the  train  of  thought  suggested  by  the  re-read- 
ing of  his  diary,  the  Chief  has  been  suddenly  confronted  with 
some  unpleasant  suspicions  and  possibilities. 

He  has  pondered  everything  pertaining  to  the  mystery  sur- 
rounding Vernet's  improper  use  of  his  business  letter-heads, 
and  his  visit  to  the  Warburton  mansion  in  the  guise  of  Augus- 
tus Grip.  And  he  has  vainly  tried  to  trace  the  connection  be- 
tween these  manoeuvres  and  some  of  Star,  hope's  inconsistencies. 

In  >the  search,  he  has  made  a  discovery :  Alan  "\Varburton,  the 
uncle  of  the  lost  child  for  whom  his  men  have  been  vainly  search- 
ing, and  Leslie  Warburton,  the  widow  of  the  late  Archibald 
Warburton,  have  both  sailed  for  Europe.  Business  connected 
with  the  search  has  been  transacted  through  Mr.  Follingsbee ; 
and  this  voyage  across  the  sea,  at  so  inopportune  a  time,  has 
been  treated  by  the  lawyer  wdth  singular  reticence,  not  to  say 
secrecy. 

What  could  have  caused  these  two  to  make  such  a  journey 
at  such  a  time  ?  Why  did  Van  Vernet  enter  their  house  in 
disguise?  Who  were  the  two  that  had  sailed  to  Europe  by 
proxy?  What  was  this  mystery  which,  he  instinctively  felt, 
had  taken  root  on  the  night  of  the  fruitless  Raid  ? 

"  It  was  young  Warburton  who  had  secured  Vernet's  ser- 
vices, and  afterwards  dismissed  him  in  such  summary  fashion. 
It  was  Mr.  Follingsbee  who  had  engaged  Stanhope,  for  that 
self-same  night,  for  a  masquerade.  If  I  could  question  Stan- 
hope," he  muttered.  "Oh  \  I  need  not  wait  for  that;  I'll  in- 
terview Follingsbee." 

He  dashed  off  a  note,  asking  the  lawyer  to  wait  upon  him 


A  CHIEF'S  PERPLEXITIES.  393 

that  afternoon,  and  having  dispatched  it,  was  about  to  resume 
the  study  of  his  new  problem,  when  Sanford  entered  with  a 
memorandum  in  his  hand. 

"Beale  has  come  in,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone.  "He  has 
been  the  rounds,  and  gives  a  full  report  of  Vernet's  move- 
ments." 

"Has  Beale  been  out  alone?" 

"Not  since  the  first  two  hours;  he  has  three  men  out 
now." 

"  Phew  !  Well,  read  your  minutes,  Sanford ;  I  see  you  have 
taken  them  down  from  word  of  mouth." 

"Yes,  it  was  the  shortest  way.  Vernet  is  watching  three 
localities."  . 

"Oh!" 

"Beale  shadowed  him,  first,  to  the  residence  of  Mr.  Fol- 
lingsbee,  the  lawyer." 

"Umph!"  The  Chief  started,  then  checked  himself,  and 
sank  back  in  his  chair. 

"  Here,"  continued  Sanford,  "  he  had  a  man  on  guard.  They 
exchanged  a  few  words,  and  Vernet  went  away,  the  shadower 
staying  near  the  lawyer's  house.  From  there  Vernet  went 
direct  to  Warburton  place." 

The  Chief  bit  his  lips  and  stirred  uneasily. 

"  Here  he  had  another  shadower.  They  also  conferred  to- 
gether. Then  Vernet  took  a  carriage  and  went  East  to  the 
suburbs ;  out  to  the  very  edge  of  the  city,  where  the  houses 
are  scattering  and  inhabited  by  poor  laborers.  At  the  end  of 
K.  street,  he  left  his  carriage,  and  went  on  foot  to  a  little 
saloon,  the  farthest  out  of  any  in  that  vicinity.  There  he  had 
a  long  talk  with  a  fellow  who  seemed  to  be  personating  a 
bricklayer.  He  left  the  saloon  and  went  back  to  his  carriage, 


394  DANGfiROtS 


seemingly  in  high  spirits,  and  the  bricklayer  departed  in  the 
opposite  direction." 

"  Away  from  the  city  ?" 

"Yes;  toward  the  furthermost  houses." 

The  Chief  bent  his  head  and  meditated. 

"This  happened,  when?"  he  asked. 

"  Yesterday." 

"And  Beale;  what  did  he  do?" 

"Set  three  men  to  watch  three  men.  One  at  Follingsbee's, 
one  at  "Warburton  place,  and  one  at  the  foot  of  K.  street." 

"Good;  and  these  shadowers  of  Vernet's  —  could  Beale  iden- 
tify either  of  them?" 

"No;  he  is  sure  they  do  not  belong  to  us,  and  were  never 
among  our  men." 

"Very  well.  Beale  has  done  famously.  Let  him  keep  a 
strict  watch  until  further  orders." 

•Once  more  the  Chief  knits  his  brow  and  ponders.  The 
mystery  grows  deeper,  and  he  finds  in  it  ample  food  for  medi- 
tation. 

But  he  is  doomed  to  interruption.  This  time  it  is  Vernet's 
report. 

He  eyes  it  askance,  and  lays  it  upon  the  desk  beside  him. 
Just  now  it  is  less  interesting,  less  important,  than  his  own 
thoughts. 

But  again  his  door  opens.  He  lifts  his  head  with  a  trace 
of  annoyance.  It  is  George,  the  office  boy.  He  comes  for- 
ward and  proffers  a  note  to  his  Chief. 

The  latter  takes  it  slowly,  looks  languidly  at  the  superscrip- 
tion, then  breaks  the  seal. 

One  glance,  and  the  expression  of  annoyance  and  languor  is 
gone  ;  the  eyes  brighten,  and  the  whole  man  is  alive  with  in- 
terest. 


THE  LAST  MOMENT.  395 

And  yet  the  note  contains  only  these  two  lines: 

Send  three  good  men,  in  plain  clothes,  to  the  last  saloon  at  the  foot 

of  K.  street,  2.  P.  M.  sharp. 

DICK  S. 

"Oh!"  ejaculates  the  Chief,  "Dick  at  last!  Something  is 
going  to  happen." 

And  then  he  calls  the  office  boy  back. 

"Go  to  this  address,"  he  says,  hastily  writing  upon  a  card ; 
"ask  for  Mr.  Parks,  and  say  to  him  that  I  am  obliged  to  beg 
himself  and  friend  to  put  off  their  interview  with  me  until  this 
afternoon,  say  three  o'clock."  . 

"When  the  boy  had  departed,  he  turned  to  the  desk  and  took 
up  Vernet's  report.  As  he  opened  it,  he  frowned  and  mut- 
tered : 

"  Vernet's  doing  some  queer  work.  If  it  were  any  one  else, 
I  should  say  he  was  in  a  muddle.  As  it  is,  I  shall  not  feel 
sure  that  all  is  right  until  I  know  what  his  manoeuvres  mean. 
I'll  have  no  more  interviews  until  I  have  seen  Follingsbee, 
and  studied  this  matter  out." 


CHAPTER  LV. 

THE  LAST  MOMENT. 

At  two  P.  M.  of  the  same  day,  the  day  that  witnessed  Alan 
Warburton's  return  to  his  own ,  and  the  Chiefs  perplexity, 
there  is  an  ominous  stillness  brooding  about  the  Francoise 
dwelling. 

In  the  outer  room,  Papa  Francoise  is  alone,  and,  if  one  may 

25 


396  ±>ANGEfcOt)S  GROUND. 

judge  from  his  restlessness,  not  much  relishing  his  solitude. 

The  room  is  cleaner  than  usual.  All  about  it  an  awkward 
attempt  at  tidiness  is  visible.  Papa,  too,  is  less  unkempt  than 
common,  seeming  to  have  made  a  stout  effort  at  old-time  re- 
spectability. But  he  cannot  assume  a  virtuous  and  respectable 
calm,  a  comfortable  repose. 

He  goes  to  the  window  and  peers  anxiously  into  the  street. 
Sometimes  he  opens  the  outer  door,  and  thrusts  his  head  half 
out 'to  gaze  along  the  thoroughfare  cityward.  And  then  he 
goes  across  the  room,  and  opens  the  door  of  a  big  dingy  closet: 
looks  within,  closes  the  door  quietly,  and  tiptoes  back  to  the 
window. 

There  is  nothing  remarkable  in  that  closet.  It  is  dark  and 
dirty.  A  few  shabby  garments  are  hanging  on  the  wall,  and 
a  pallet  occupies  the  floor,  looking  as  if  it  had  been  carelessly 
flung  there  and  not  yet  prepared  for  its  occupant. 

Papa  seems  to  note  this.  Stooping  down,  he  smoothes  out 
the  ragged  blanket  and  straightens  the  dirty  mattress,  cocking 
his  head  on  one  side  to  note  the  improvement  thus  made. 
Then  he  goes  back  to  the  window,  and  again  looks  out.  With 
every  passing  moment  he  grows  more  and  more  disquieted. 

In  the  inner  room,  Leslie  "Warburton  sits  alone.  Her  arms 
are  crossed  upon  the  rough  table  beside  her ;  her  head  is  bowed 
upon  her  arms;  her  attitude  betokens  weariness  and  dejection. 
By  and  by  she  lifts  her  face,  and  it  is  very  pale,  very  sad,  very 
weary.  But  above  all,  it  is  very  calm. 

Since  the  day  when  Stanhope's  message  brought  her  new 
hope,  she  has  played  her  part  bravely.  Weak  in  body,  har- 
assed in  mind,  filled  with  constantly-increasing  loathing  for  the 
people  who  are  her  only  companions,  utterly  unable  to  guess 


THE  LAST  MOMENT.  397 

at  the  meaning  of  Stanhope's  message — she  has  battled  with 
illness,  and  fought  off  despair,  fully  realizing  that  in  him  was 
her  last  hope,  her  only  chance  for  succor;  and  fully  resolved 
to  cling  to  this  last  hope,  and  to  aid  her  helper  in  the  only 
way  she  could — by  doing  his  bidding. 

"Seem  to  submit,"  he  said.  She  had  submitted.  "Let 
them  play  their  game  to  the  very  last."  She  had  made  no  re- 
sistance. 

And  now  the  end  had  come.  She  had  obeyed  in  all  things. 
And  to-day  the  Francoises  were  jubilant.  To-day  Leslie  War- 
burton,  by  her  own  consent,  was  to  marry  Franz  Francoise. 

It  was  the  last  day,  the  last  hour;  and  Leslie's  strength  and 
courage  are  sorely  tried. 

"Trust  all  to  me,"  he  had  said.  "When  the  right  time 
comes,  I  will  be  at  hand." 

Leslie  arose,  and  paced  slowly  up  and  down  her  narrow 
room,  feeling  her  heart  almost  stop  its  beating.  Had  she  not 
trusted  to  him?  trusted  blindly;  and  now — had  not  the  right 
time  come?  Was  it  not  the  only  time?  And  where  was 
Stanhope?  "If  he  should  fail  me !"  she  moaned,  "  if  he  should 
fail  me  after  all !" 

And  her  heart  leaps  suddenly ;  its  tumultuous  throbbing* 
nearly  suffocate  her.  She  sits  down  again  and  her  breath 
comes  hard  and  fast. 

"If  he  should  fail  me,"  she  says  again,  "then — that  would 
be  the  end." 

For  she  has  made  a  fearful  resolve.  She  would  play  her 
part,  as  it  was  the  only  way.  She  would  not  fail  in  the  task 
he  had  assigned  her,  and  if,  at  the  last,  he  failed,  then — before 
she  became  the  wife  of  Franz  Francoise,  she  would  die! 

And  Daisy — what,  then,  would  become  of  her? 


398  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Leslie  puts  back  the  thought  with  a  passionate  moan.  She 
must  not  think  now. 

Mamma  has  sworn  to  produce  the  child  within  the  hour 
that  sees  Leslie  the  wife  of  Franz.  And  Leslie  has  vowed, 
when  the  child's  hand  is  in  hers,  to  sign  a  paper  which  Mamma 
shall  place  before  her — anything ;  she  cares  not  what. 

She  has  agreed  to  all  this,  suffered  her  martyrdom,  sustained 
by  the  promise:  "At  the  right  time  I  shall  be  at  hand.  I 
will  not  fail  you." 

And  the  last  moments  are  passing. 

She  can  hear  Papa  shuffling  about  the  outer  room,  and  she 
knows  that  Franz  has  gone  to  bring  the  Priest.  The  right 
time  is  very  near;  but  Stanhope — 

She  has  not  seen  Mamma  since  morning.  She  has  not  heard 
her  rasping  voice,  nor  her  heavy  step  in  the  outer  room.  But 
the  minutes  are  going  fast;  Franz  will  be  back  soon. 

And  Stanhope — O,  God,  where  is  Stanhope? 

Again  she  bows  her  head  upon  her  arms  and  utters  a  low 
moan. 

"  Oh,  if  he  should  fail  me!     If  he  should  fail  me!" 

In  the  outer  room,  Papa's  restlessness  increases.  He  vi- 
brates constantly  now  between  the  window  and  the  door. 

The  curtain  is  drawn  up  to  the  low  ceiling;  the  entire  win- 
dow is  bare  and  stares  out  upon  the  street  like  a  watchful  eye. 

And  now  Papa  turns  suddenly  from  the  door,  closes  it,  and 
hastens  to  the  window;  looks  out  once  again  to  reassure  him- 
self, and  then,  rising  on  tiptoe,  draws  down  the  dark  curtain. 
He  measures  the  window  with  a  glance,  lowering  the  curtain 
slowly  and  stopping  it  half  way  down. 

It  is  a  signal,  prearranged  by  Mamma,  and  it  tells  that  ap- 
proaching personage  that  the  way  is  clear,  that  Franz  is  absent. 


Vgain  she  bows  her  head  upon  her  arms  and  utters  a  low  moan."- 

899. 


400  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Another  moment  of  waiting  and  he  hears  shuffling  foot- 
steps, and  the  sound  of  receding  wheels.  Then  he  opens  the 
door,  opens  it  wide  this  time,  and  admits  Mamma. 

Mamma,  and  something  else.  This  something  she  carries 
in  her  arms.  It  is  carefully  wrapped  in  a  huge  shawl,  and  is 
quite  silent  and  moveless. 

"You  are  sure  it's  all  right?"  whispers  Papa  nervously,  as 
in  obedience  to  a  movement  of  Mamma's  head  he  opens  the 
closet-door. 

Mamma  lays  down  her  still  burden,  covers  it  carefully  with 
the  ragged  blanket,  closes  the  door  of  the  closet,  and  then 
turns  to  face  Papa. 

"Yes,"  she  says,  in  a  hoaise  whisper;  "my  part  of  the 
business  is  right  enough.  Ye  needn't  be  uneasy  about  that.  I 
told  ye  I  wouldn't  bring  her  into  the  house  while  Franz  was 
here;  and  as  for  my  being  followed,  I  ain't  afraid;  I've 
doubled  on  my  track  too  often.  If  any  one  started  to  follow 
me,  they're  watching  the  wrong  door  this  minute.  How  long 
has  Franz  been  away  ?" 

"Not  half  an  hour." 

"How's  she  been  behaving?" 

"Quiet;  very  quiet." 

Mamma  seats  herself,  removes  her  hideous  bonnet,  and  draws 
a  heavy  breath. 

"  Well,  I've  done  my  part,"  she  says  grimly.  "  Now,  let 
Franzy  do  his'n." 

She  goes  to  a  shelf,  takes  therefrom  a  bottle  of  ink  and  a 
rusty  pen. 

"I  wish," — she  begins,  then  pauses  and  slowly  draws  a 
folded  paper  from  her  pocket  ;  "I  wish  we  could  git  this  signed 


THE  LAST  MOMENT.  401 

Papa  coughs  slightly,  and  turns  an  anxious  look  toward  the 
door. 

"I'm  afraid  it  wouldn't  be  safe,"  he  says.  Then  he  starts 
and  turns  toward  the  closet.  "  You're  sure  she  won't  wake 
up?"  he  whispers. 

Mamma  turns  upon  him  angrily. 

"D'yes'pose  I'd  run  any  risk  now  ?"  she  hisses.  "She's  got 
a  powerful  dose  of  Nance's  quietin'  stuff.  Don't  you  be 
afeared  about  her.  All  we  want  is  to  git  this  business  over, 
and  that  little  paper  signed." 

"I'm  dreadful  uneasy,"  sighs  Papa.  "I  wish  I  was  sure 
how  this  thing  would  come  out." 

"  Wall,  I  kin  tell  ye.  When  the  gal  gits  hold  of  her  little 
one,  she'll  turn  her  back  on  us  all.  Married  or  not,  she'll 
never  own  Franzy.  And  I  don't  s'pose  the  boy'll  care  much ; 
it's  the  money  he's  after.  She'll  give  him  that  fast  enough, 
and  he'll  always  know  where  to  look  for  more.  As  for  us, 
this  marrying  makes  us  safe.  She'd  die  before  she'd  have  it 
known,  and  she  can't  make  us  any  trouble  without  its  coming 
out.  She'll  be  glad  to  take  her  young  un,  and  let  us  alone. 
Don't  you  see  that  even  after  she's  got  the  young  un,  we  shall 
have  her  in  a  tighter  grip  than  ever,  once  she's  married  to 
Franzy?  As  fer  the  paper  she's  to  sign,  it  won't  hold  good  in 
law,  but  it  will  hold  with  her.  And  she  won't  go  to  a  lawyer 
with  it ;  be  sure  of  that." 

"  Hark !"  ejaculates  Papa. 

And  in  another  instant,  there  is  a  stumbling  step  outside, 
and  a  heavy  thump  upon  the  door. 

"  It's  Franz,"  whispers  Mamma.  And  she  hastens  to  admit 
her  Prodigal. 

As  he  enters,  Mamma's  sharp  eye  notes  his  flushed  face  and 


402  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

exaggerated  swagger,  and  she  greets  him  with  an  indignant 
sniff. 

"Couldn't  ye  keep  sober  jist  once?"  she  grumbles,  as  he 
pauses  before  her.  "  Where's  the  Preach?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sober  enough,"  grins  Franz.  "And  the  Preach 
is  coming.  He's  bringin'  a  witness." 

Papa  and  Mamma  exchange  swift  glances.  Franz,  sober, 
is  not  the  most  agreeable  and  dutiful  of  sons;  Franz,  in  liquor, 
is  liable  to  sudden  violent  outbreaks,  if  not  delicately 
handled. 

Papa  makes  a  signal  which  Mamma  interprets :  "  Don't  ir- 
ritate him."  And  the  two  continue  to  eye  him  anxiously  as 
he  crosses  the  room  and  attempts  to  open  the  door  of  the  inner 
apartment. 

"Locked!"  he  mutters,  and  turns  toward  Mamma.  "Out 
with  your  key,  old  un,"  he  says  quite  amiably ;  "  the  Preach  'ull 
be  here  in  five  minutes,  and  what  ye've  got  to  say,  all  round, 
had  better  be  said  afore  he  comes.  Open  this." 

"  The  boy's  right  enough,"  mutters  Papa.  "  Open  the  door, 
old  woman." 

Silently  Mamma  obeys,  and  Franz  is  the  first  to  enter  the 
room.  He  goes  straight  over  to  the  table  where  Leslie  sits, 
scarcely  stirring  at  their  entrance,  and  he  looks  down  at  her 
intently. 

"See  here,  Leschen,"  he  says,  "don't  think  that  this  lockin' 
ye  in  is  my  doin's,  or  that  it's  goin'  to  be  continued.  It's  the 
old  woman  as  is  takin'  such  precious  care  of  ye." 

Mamma  is  at  his  elbow,  glancing  sharply  at  him,  while  she 
places  upon  the  table  pen,  iuk,  and  a  folded  paper. 

"  We've  kept  our  word,  gal,"  she  SMVS  harshly,  "and  we 
know  that  after  to-day  ye  may  take  some  queer  fancies.  2s  ow, 


THE  LAST  MOMBlfT.  403 

this  paper  is  ter  signify  that  we  have  acted  fairly  by  ye,  and 
ter  bind  ye  not  ter  make  us  any  trouble  hereafter." 

Leslie's  eyes  rove  slowly  from  one  to  the  other.  She  feels 
that  the  end  has  come,  and  with  the  last  remnant  of  her  cour- 
age she  keeps  back  the  despairing  cry  that  rises  to  her  lips. 

As  she  gazes,  Franz  Francoise  makes  a  sudden  movement 
as  if  to  snatch  up  the  paper,  then  as  suddenly  withdraws  his 
hand. 

"  Wot's  in  that  paper?"  he  asks,  turning  to  Mamma. 

"Ye  know  well  enough,"  retorts  the  old  woman  tartly. 
"  We've  promised  her  the  gal,  and  she's  promised  not  to  inform 
agin  us.  We're  goin'  to  stick  to  our  bargain,  and  we  want 
her  to  stick  to  hers." 

And  she  pushes  the  pen  and  ink  toward  Leslie.  But  the 
latter  does  not  heed  the  motion. 

"Oh,"  she  cries,  half  rising  and  clasping  her  hands  in  in- 
tense appeal,  "  is  it  true?  Is  she  indeed  so  near  me?  Shall 
I  have  her  back  ?" 

"Yes,  yes."  Mamma  grows  impatient,  "Sign  this  and 
then—" 

Franz  leans  forward  and  puts  one  finger  upon  the  folded 
paper. 

"  Once  agin,"  says  he  sharply,  "  what's  that  ?" 

"It's  a  simple  little  paper,  Franzy,"  breaks  in  Papa  reas- 
suringly, "jest  to  'stablish  our  innocence,  in  case  your  new 
wife  should  happen  to  forgit  her  promise.  It's  nothing 
that'll  affect  you." 

"Umph,"  grunts  Franz,  eyeing  the  pair  suspiciously,  "  that's 
it,  is  it."  Then,  turning  to  Leslie:  "Read  that  paper,  gal." 

But  Papa  puts  out  his  hand. 

"  It's  only  a  little  form,  my  dear  boy." 


404  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"Wai,"  with  growing  aggressiveness,  "  let  her  read  the  little 
form." 

"  It's  only  a  waste  o'  time,"  breaks  in  Mamma  impatiently, 
"  an'  the  sooner  it's  signed,  the  sooner  she'll — " 

' " Only  a  waste  of  time."  The  words  awaken  Leslie's  almost 
benumbed  senses.  Time;  that  is  just  what  this  discussion  is 
gaining  for  her,  fqr  Stanhope!  Since  their  entrance,  she  has 
not  opened  her  lips;  now  she  interrupts  Mamma's  discourse. 

"Let  me  read  the  paper,"  she  says. 

By  a  quick  movement,  Papa  extracts  the  paper  from  be- 
neath the  finger  of  his  Prodigal,  and  holding  it  tightly,  steps 
back  from  the  table. 

"It's  wasting  time,"  he  says,  "  an'  it's  only  a  little  form." 

Then  Leslie  draws  herself  up  to  her  fullest  height,  and  step- 
ping back  from  the  table  says: 

"I  will  sign  no  paper  that  I  have  not  read." 

With  a  sudden  movement  Franz  springs  upon  Papa,  wrests 
the  paper  from  his  grasp,  and  passes  it  over  Mamma's  shoulder 
to  Leslie.  Then  he  turns  fiercely  upon  the  pair. 

"If  ye  could  read,  Franz  Francoise,"  shrieks  Mamma,  in  a 
burst  of  incautious  rage,  "ye'd  never  a-done  that  thing!" 

"Kerrect!"  retorts  Franz,  with  a  malicious  grin,  "I'd  a- 
read  it  myself.  Not  bein'  able  to  do  that,  I'd  sooner  take 
her  word  fer  it  than  your'n." 

Again  Papa  comes  forward  and  lays  a  hand  upon  the  arm 
of  his  son. 

"Franzy,"  he  says  deprecatingly,  "ye  don't  know  what  ye 
are  doin'." 

"Don't  I?"  sneers  Franz.  "Wai  I'm  goin' ter  find  out 
shortly." 

A   sudden  exclamation   from   Leslie  causes  him  to  turn 


THE  LAST  MOMENT.  405 

quickly.     She  is  gazing  at  the  paper  with  a  bewildered  face. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  peremptorily. 

"This  paper,"  exclaims  Leslie,  "would  bind  me  to  make 
over  one  third  of  any  property  I  am  or  may  become  possessed 
of  to  those  two  and — " 

"What!"  Again  Franz  makes  a  movement  as  if  about  to 
seize  the  paper,  then,  dropping  his  hand,  he  repeats:  "  To  those 
two?"  pointing  to  Papa  and  Mamma;  "and  don't  it  make  no 
mention  o'  me  ?" 

"Now  Franz — "  remonstrates  Mamma. 

"You  shut  up!  Say,  gal,  does  that  document  leave  me 
out?" 

Leslie's  eyes  scan  the  page.  "It  does  not  name  you,"  she 
falters. 

"Oh,  it  don't!  Wai,"  stepping  to  her  side  and  taking  the 
paper  from  her,  "  wal,  then,  we  won't  sign  it." 

As  he  crumples  it  in  his  hand,  Leslie  moves  toward  Mamma 
Francoise,  seeming  in  one  moment  to  have  mastered  all  her 
fears. 

"This  paper,"  she  says,  turning  her  clear  eyes  upon  Mamma, 
"  confirms  what  I  have  suspected,  ever  since  you  proposed  this 
marriage  with  your  son,  as  the  price  of  little  Daisy's  deliver- 
ance. You  know  the  secret  of  my  birth  and  believe  me  to  be 
an  heiress.  You  stole  little  Daisy  to  compel  me  to  this" — 
pointing  at  the  paper  in  the  hand  of  Franz — "and  since  your 
son  has  returned,  you  would  strengthen  your  own  position 
while  you  enrich  him.  It  was  a  clever  plot,  but  overdone. 
Give  me  the  pen,  give  me  the  paper.  Rather  than  leave  little 
Daisy  longer  at  your  mercy,  I  would  resign  to  you  an  hundred 
fortunes  were  they  mine." 

She  moves  toward  the  table,  but  Franz  is  before  her. 


406  DAKGEfeOTTS  GfcOtJND. 

"Oh,  no!"  he  says,  quietly;  "I  guess  not!  I  don't  seem 
to  cut  much  of  a  figure  in  that  little  transaction  on  paper,  but 
I'm  blessed  if  I  don't  hold  my  own  in  this  business.  Ye  can't 
&ign  that  paper;  not  yet." 

Leslie  turns  from  him  and  again  addresses  Mamma. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  she  says.  "  I  know  your  scheme  now,  and 
I  know  how  to  deal  with  you.  I  never  meant  to  marry  this 
man.  I  never  will.  You  want  money;  give  me  back  little 
Daisy,  and  I  will  sign  this  paper,  or  any  other  you  may  frame. 
And  I  will  swear  never  to  complain  against  you,  never  to 
molest  you,  never  to  reveal  the  secret  of  these  awful  weeks. 
There  let  it  end :  I  will  never  marry  your  son !" 

With  a  sudden  motion,  Mamma  turns  upon  Franz,  and  at- 
tempts to  snatch  the  paper  from  his  hand. 

"Give  me  that,  pa  nor,  boy!"  she  fairly  hisses. 

But  he  repulses  her  savagely,  and  thrusts  the  paper  into  his 
breast. 

"Take  care,  old  woman!"  he  exclaims  hotly.  "I  ain't 
your  son  for  nothing;  what  do  ye  take  me  for?" 

His  words  are  interrupted  by  a  loud  knock  on  the  door. 

"  Do  ye  hear  that?"  lie  hisses.  "  Now,  that  parson's  coming 
in  to  finish  this  marryin'  business,  or  I'm  goin'  right  out  of 
here,  and  the  gal  along  with  me,  if  I  have  to  cut  my  way 
straight  through  ye!  The  gal  can  sign  the  paper  if  she  likes, 
but  she'll  sign  it  Leschen  Francoise,  orshe'll  never  sign  it  at  all !" 

And  before  they  can  guess  his  intentions,  he  has  caught 
Leslie  up  and  fairly  carried  her  to  the  outer  room.  In  a 
flutter  of  fear  and  rage,  Mamma  follows,  and  Papa  hovers  in 
the  open  doorway. 

"  Franz  Francoise !"  shrieks  Mamma,  the  tiger  now  fairly 
awake  in  her  eyes. 


"Give  me  that  paper,  boyt"  she  fairly  hisses. — pa?e  406. 

^407 


408  DANGEROUS  GROtTNt). 

But  he  pays  no  heed  to  her  rage.  He  releases  his  hold  upon 
Leslie,  and  flings  open  the  door. 

"I  don't  know  as  we  will  have  any  funeral,  after  all/'  he 
says  cheerfully,  to  the  two  who  enter.  "  There's  a  kind  of  a 
hitch  in  the  arrangements." 

The  new-comers,  the  foremost  in  the  garb  of  a  Priest,  and 
the  other  evidently  a  very  humble  citizen,  stop  near  the  open 
door  and  glance  curiously  around.  And  then  a  third  citizen 
appears,  and  fairly  fills  up  the  doorway. 

Even  as  they  enter,  Mamma,  stealing  close  to  Leslie,  whispers 
in  her  ear: 

"If  ye  ever  want  to  see  yer  gal  agin,  marry  him" 

Leslie  Warburton  looks  into  the  wolfish  face  beside  her ; 
looks  across  at  Franz,  and  then  at  the  three  new-comers. 
What  stolid  faces!  She  sees  no  hope  there.  And  then,  as 
Mamma's  words  repeat  themselves  in  her  ear,  she  leans  against 
the  rickety  closet-door  and  utters  a  despairing  moan. 

"Quick !"  whispers  Mamma,  "it's  yer  last  chance!" 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

AT  THE  RIGHT  TIME. 

"Ye  see,"  explains  Franz,  glancing  toward  Leslie,  "the 
lady's  kind  o'  hesitatin'.  We'll  give  her  a  minute  or  two  ter 
make  up  her  mind."  And  he  goes  over  and  takes  his  stand 
beside  her. 

In  the  moment  of  silence  that  follows,  Leslie  can  hear  her 
heart  beat,  then — 


AT  THE  RIGHT  TIME.  409 

What  is  it  that  breaks  that  strange  stillness,  that  startles  so 
differently  every  occupant  of  that  dingy  room  ? 

Only  a  voice,  sweet,  clear,  pitiful ;  a  child's  voice,  uplifted 
in  prayer: 

"  Dear  God,  please  take  care  of  a  little  girl  whose  Mamma 
has  gone  to  Heaven — " 

The  rest  is  drowned  in  the  shriek  which  bursts  from  Leslie's 
lips;  in  the  sudden  bound  made  by  Mamma;  and  the  quick 
counter  movement  of  Franz. 

Then  Leslie's  hands  are  beating  wildly  against  the  closet- 
door.  Mamma,  forcibly  hurled  back  by  Franz,  is  sprawling 
upon  the  floor,  and  the  escaped  convict  is  pressing  against  the 
rickety  timbers. 

As  they  yield  to  his  onslaught,  he  stoops  down,  catches  up 
the  little  crouching  figure  within,  and  turns  to  Leslie,  who  re- 
ceives it  with  outstretched  arms. 

"Oh,  Daisy!  Daisy!  DAISY!" 

Sobbing  wildly,  she  is  down  upon  her  knees,  the  little  one 
tightly  clasped  to  her  bosom. 

"Oh,  Daisy,  my  darling!" 

"Git  out!"  commands  Franz,  as  Mamma,  scrambling  up, 
approaches  with  glaring  eyes.  "Stand  back,  old  un.  This  is 
a  new  deal." 

And  he  places  himself  as  a  barricade  before  Leslie  and  the 
child,  waving  back  the  infuriated  old  woman  with  a  gesture 
of  menace. 

And  then  heavy  feet  come  trampling  across  the  threshold. 
Men  in  police  uniform  fill  up  the  doorway,  and  the  foremost 
of  them  says,  as  he  approaches  the  Prodigal : 

"Franz  Francoise,  I  arrest  you  in  the  name  of  the  law!" 

The  priest  and  his  two  witnesses  start  perceptibly,  and  turn 

*18 


410  DANGEHOtiS  GKOtJND. 

their  faces  toward  Franz.  Papa  and  Mamma  slink  back  to- 
ward the  inner  room.  Leslie  lifts  her  head  and  looks  wonder- 
ingly  at  the  new-comers. 

Only  Franz  remains  undisturbed.  With  a  swift  movement, 
he  whisks  out  a  pair  of  revolvers  and  presents  them,  muzzle 
foremost,  to  the  speaker. 

"  Not  just  yet !"  he  says  coolly ;  "  I  ain't  quite  ready.  Ye've 
interrupted  me,  and  ye'll  have  to  wait." 

One  of  his  hands  is  slightly  uplifted  and,  for  just  an  instant, 
his  head  turns  toward  the  inner  room. 

The  two  witnesses,  making  way  for  the  police,  lounge  nearer 
to  Papa  and  Mamma. 

"You  had  better  not  resist,  Franz  Francoise,"  says  the  leader 
once  more.  "  You  can't  escape  us  now." 

"No;  I  s'pose  not,"  assents  Franz.  "Oh,  I  know  I'm 
cornered,  but  wait." 

He  moves  aside  and  looks  down  upon  Leslie. 

"  Tliis  lady,"  he  says  quietly,  "  and  her  little  gal,  are  here 
by  accident,  and  they  ain't  to  be  mixed  up  in  this  business  o' 
mine.  Look  here,  Mr.  Preach — " 

The  Priest  comes  forward,  and  glances  at  him  inquiringly. 

"Ye  can't  afford  to  lose'yer  time  altogether,  I  s'pose,  and 
I'll  give  ye  a  new  contract.  Ye  see  this  lady  and  the  little 
gal  are  being  scared  by  these  cops.  I  want  you  to  take  'em 
away.  The  lady '11  tell  ye  where  to  go,  and  don't  ye  leave  'em 
till  ye've  seen  'em  safe  home." 

Without  a  word  of  comment,  the  Priest  moves  toward  Leslie. 

At  the  same  instant,  and  with  a  howl  of  rage,  Mamma 
rushes  forward. 

"Stop  her!"  says  Franz ;  and  one  of  the  two  witnesses  lays 
a  strong  hand  upon  Mamma's  shoulder. 


"Not  just  yet;  I  aint  quite  ready !"— page  410. 


411 


412  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Then  the  Prodigal  turns  to  Leslie,  who,  with  the  child  in 
her  arms,  has  risen  to  her  feet. 

"Go,"  he  says  gently;  "you  are  free  and  safe.  Go  at  once. 
That  old  woman  will  harm  you  if  she  can." 

With  a  start  and  a  sudden  bounding  of  her  pulses,  Leslie 
looks  into  the  face  of  the  Prodigal,  only  an  instant,  for  he 
turns  it  away.  And  all  bewildered,  pallid  and  trembling,  she 
yields  to  the  gentle  force  by  which  the  Priest  compels  her  to 
move,  mechanically,  almost  blindly,  from  the  room. 

The  officers  step  back  to  let  her  pass.  And  as  she  reaches 
the  outer  air,  she  has  a  shadowy  vision  of  Franz  Francoise, 
with  pistols  in  hand,  standing  at  bay;  of  Mamma  struggling 
in  the  grasp  of  the  humble  citizen,  and  uttering  yells  of  im- 
potent rage. 

She  feels  the  cool  air  upon  her  brow,  and  clasps  the  child 
closer  in  her  arms,  believing  herself  to  be  moving  in  a  dream. 
Then  the  voice  of  the  Priest  assures  her. 

"Give  me  the  child,  Mrs.  Warburton,"  he  says  respectfully, 
"and  lean  on  my  arm.  We  have  a  carriage  near." 

When  Leslie  had  disappeared  beyond  the  doorway,  Franz 
Francoise  throws  clown  his  pistols. 

"Now  then,  boys/'  he  says  quietly,  "you  can  come  and 
take  me." 

With  a  yell  of  rage,  Mamma  hurls  herself  upon  her  captor. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  shrieks.  "Ah,  ye  brute,  let  me  get  at 
him!  Let  me  kill  the  sneakin'  coward!  Ah,"  kicking  viciously, 
mid  gnashing  her  teeth  as  she  struggles  to  reach  the  Prodigal, 
"  that  I  should  have  to  own  such  a  chicken-hearted  son !" 

The  leader  of  the  officers,  handcuffs  in  hand,  has  approached 
Franz,  and  the  others  are  closing  about  him. 

As  Mamma  utters  her  fierce-  anathema,  he  turns  upon  her 


AT  THE  RIGHT  TIME.  413 

suddenly,  making  at  the  same  time  a  swift  gesture  of  impa- 
tience. 

"Gray,"  he  says  sternly,  "bring  out  that  old  man." 

It  is  not  the  voice  of  Franz  Francoise ;  it  is  not  his  manner. 
And  as  the  man  addressed  as  Gray  lays  a  hand  upon  Papa 
Francoise,  the  old  woman  catches  her  breath  with  a  hissing 
sound,  and  stares  blankly. 

Struggling  and  whimpering,  Papa  is  dragged  from  the 
inner  room,  and  when  he  stands  before  the  group,  the  Prodigal 
says: 

"Now,  Harvey,  make  the  proper  use  of  your  handcuffs. 
Put  them  on  this  precious  pair." 

"What!" 

The  leader  of  the  arresting  party  starts  forward,  and  stares 
at  the  speaker,  who  makes  a  sudden  movement  and  then  faces 
the  officers,  holding  in  his  hand  a  carroty  wig  and  moustache! 

Papa's  face  is  ashen.  Mamma  writhes  and  gurgles,  staring 
wildly  at  this  sudden  transformation.  The  officers  instinct- 
ively group  themselves  together,  and  the  handcuffs  fall  from 
the  leader's  grasp,  clanking  dolefully  as  they  strike  the  bare 
floor. 

"Stanhope!"  gasps  the  officer,  starting  forward,  and  then 
drawing  back. 

And  the  two  aids  instinctively  echo  the  word : 

"Stanhope!" 

"Stanhope!" 

Then  the  man  who  has  so  long  masqueraded  as  Franz  Fran- 
coise flings  aside  the  carroty  wig  and  fixes  a  stern  eye  upon 
Mamma  Francoise. 

"Woman,"  he  says  slowly;  "let  me  set  your  mind  at  rest. 
You  need  never  again  call  me  your  sou.  Franz  Francoise  is 


414  DANGEROUS  GRGUXD. 

dead,  and  before  he  died  he  told  me  his  story,  and  yours,  as 
he  knew  it.  If  for  weeks  I  have  lived  among  you  in  his 
likeness,  you  know  now  why  it  was  necessary.  Oh,  you  are 
a  clever  pair!  Almost  too  clever,  but  you  are  outwitted. 
Harvey"  turning  once  more  to  the  officer,  "  you  shall  not  go 
back  without  a  prisoner;  you  shall  have  two.  Put  your 
bracelets  on  this  rascally  pair;  and  see  them  safely  in  separate 
cells.  Holt  and  Drake  will  go  with  you." 

The  two  humble  citizens  glance  up,  and  confirm  by  a  look 
their  leader's  assurance. 

"Drake!  Holt!"  The  man  addressed  as  Harvey  utters  the 
names  mechanically.  Drake  and  Holt  are  two  efficient  detec- 
tives, and  Harvey  knows  them  as  such.  "  Mr.  Stanhope,  I — I 
cannot  understand." 

"And  I  cannot  explain  now."  He  is  actively  assisting 
Drake  to  put  the  manacles  on  Mamma's  wrists.  "Old  woman, 
it  will  be  policy  for  you  to  keep  quiet;  or  do  you  want  me  to 
gag  you?" 

Then  turning: 

"One  thing,  Harvey;  you  were  sent  here  by  Van  Veruet. 
I  know  that  much.  Now,  tell  me  why  did  not  Van  make 
this  attempt  himself?  Don't  hesitate.  Van  has  well-nigh 
led  you  and  these  fellows  into  a  scrape;  he  has  certainly 
made  trouble  for  himself.  Where  is  he  now?" 

A  moment  Harvey  hesitates.     Then  he  says: 

"I  don't  know  where  he  is,  but  he  has  gone  to  make  another 
arrest." 

"Another!  Avho?" 

"  A  sailor;  the  fellow  who  killed  the  Jew,  Siebel." 

Richard  Stanhope  swings  himself  around  and  points  to 
Papa  Francoise,  as  with  the  finger  of  fate. 


"Sfanhope!"  gasps  the  officer,  starting  forward. — page  413. 

415 


416  DANGEKOUS  GKOUND. 

"The  man  who  killed  the  Jew,  Siebel,  is  there!"  he  says 
sternly. 

Then  snatching  up  the  wig,  he  readjusts  it  upon  his  head, 
saying,  as  he  does  it : 

"  Drake,  Holt,  look  after  these  people;  and  Harvey,  you 
may  do  well  to  ignore  Vernet's  instructions  for  the  present. 
He  has  done  mischief  enough  already.  I  must  prevent  this 
last  blunder." 

The  carroty  moustache  has  once  more  resumed  its  place. 
"  Holt,  you  understand  ?" 

"Perfectly,  sir." 

As  the  detective  is  once  more  transformed  into  Franz  Fran- 
coise,  Mamma  becomes  fairly  livid.  She  makes  a  final  frantic 
effort  to  free  herself  and  howls  out: 

"Let  me  go;  what  have  I  done?  for  what  am  I  arrested? 
Let  me  go,  you  impostor!" 

"You  will  learn  in  good  time,  woman,"  retorts  Stanhope. 
"You  may  have  to  answer  to  several  small  charges:  black- 
mail, abduction,  theft,  murder." 

He  goes  to  the  door ;  then  turns  and  looks  back  at  the 
handcuffed  pair : 

"Holt,"  he  says  impressively,  "watch  that  woman  closely, 
and  search  them  both  at  the  Jail.  You  will  find  upon 
the  woman  a  belt,  which  you  will  take  charge  of  until  I 
come." 

Mamma  Francoise  yells  with  rage.  She  writhes,  she  curses ; 
her  fear  and  fury  are  horrible  to  behold.  As  Richard  Stan- 
hope crosses  the  threshold,  her  curses  are  shrieked  after  him, 
and  her  captors  shudder  as  they  listen. 

Papa  is  abject  enough.  He  has  been  shivering,  quaking, 
cowardly,  from  the  first;  but  Stanhope's  last  words  have 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  WARBURTON  PLACE.  417 

crushed  him  utterly.     His  knees  refuse  to  support  him,  his 
eyes  stare  glassily,  his  jaw  drops  weakly. 

And  as  they  bear  them  away,  the  one  helpless  from  fear, 
the  other  resisting  with  tiger-like  fierceness,  a  distant  clock 
strikes  one,  two,  three! 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  WARBURTON  PLACE. 

There  is  unusual  stir  and  life  in  the  Warburton  Mansion, 
for  Alan  Warburton  has  returned,  as  suddenly  and  strangely 
as  he  went  away. 

He  has  made  Mrs.  French  and  Winnie  such  explanations  as 
he  could,  and  has  promised  them  one  more  full  and  complete 
when  he  shall  be  able,  himself,  to  understand,  in  all  its  details, 
the  mystery  which  surrounds  him. 

After  listening  to  the  little  that  Alan  has  to  tell — of  course 
that  part  of  his  story  which  concerns  Leslie  is  entirely  ignored, 
as  being  another's  secret  rather  than  his — Mrs.  French  and 
Winnie  are  more  than  ever  mystified,  and  they  hold  a  long 
consultation  in  their  private  sitting-room. 

Acting  upon  Alan's  suggestion — he  refuses  to  issue  an 
order — Mrs.  French  has  bidden  the  servants  throw  open  the 
closed  drawing-rooms,  and  give  to  the  house  a  more  cheerful 
aspect. 

Wonderingly,  the  servants  go  about  their  task,  and  at  noon 
all  is  done.  Warburtou  place  stands  open  to  the  sunlight,  a 

cheerful,  tasteful,  luxurious  home  once  more. 

27 


418  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  I  don't  see  what  it's  all  about,"  Winnie  French  says  pet- 
ulantly. "One  would  think  Alan  were  giving  himself  an 
ovation." 

They  lunched  together,  Alan,  Mrs.  French  and  Winnie.  It 
was  a  silent  meal,  and  very  unsatisfactory  to  Alan.  When 
they  rose  from  the  table,  Mrs.  French  desired  a  few  words 
with  him,  and  Winnie  favored  him  with  a  chilling  salute  and 
withdrew. 

When  she  had  gone,  Mrs.  French  came  straight  to  the 
point.  She  was  a  serious,  practical  woman,  and  she  wasted 
no  words. 

They  had  discussed  the  situation,  her  daughter  and  herself, 
and  they  had  decided.  Winnie  was  feeling  more  and  more 
the  embarrassment  of  their  present  position.  They  had  com- 
plied with  the  wishes  expressed  in  Leslie's  farewell  note,  as 
well  as  by  himself  and  Mr.  Follingsbee.  But  this  strangeness 
and  air  of  mystery  by  which  they  were  surrounded  was  wear- 
ing upon  Winnie.  She  went  out  so  seldom,  and  she  grieved 
and  pined  for  Leslie  and  the  little  one  so  constantly,  that  Mrs. 
French  had  decided  to  send  her  away. 

She  had  talked  of  this  before,  but  Winnie  had  been  reluctant 
to  go.  To-day,  however,  she  had  admitted  that  she  wished  to 
go;  that  she  needed  and  must  have  the  change. 

It  was  not  their  intention  to  withdraw  their  confidence  from 
Leslie,  or  from  him,  or  to  desert  their  friends.  Mrs.  French 
would  stay  at  her  post,  but  Winnie,  for  a  time  at  least,  should 
go  away.  Her  relatives  in  the  country  were  anxious  to  re- 
ceive her,  and  Winnie  was  ready  and  impatient  to  set  out. 

And  what  could  Alan  say  ?  While  his  heart  rebelled  against 
this  decision,  his  reason  endorsed  it,  and  his  pride  held  all  prot- 
estation in  check. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  WARBURTOX  PLACE.      419 

He  offered  a  fe\v  courteous  commonplaces  in  a  constrained 
and  embarrassed  manner. 

He  was  aware  that  their  unhappy  complications  must  place 
himself  and  his  sister-in-law  in  an  unfavorable  light.  He 
realized  that  they  had  already  overtaxed  the  friendship  and 
endurance  of  Mrs.  French  and  her  daughter.  In  his  present 
situation,  he  dared  not  remonstrate  against  this  decision;  he 
was  already  too  deeply  their  debtor.  He  should  regret  the  de- 
parture of  Miss  French,  and  he  should  be  deeply  grateful  to 
Mrs.  French  for  the  sacrifice  she  must  make  in  remaining. 

All  the  same,  he  felt  an  inward  pang  as  he  left  Mrs.  French, 
and  went  slowly  down  to  the  drawing-room.  Winnie  had 
gone  in  that  direction,  and  he  was  now  in  search  of  her,  for, 
in  spite  of  her  scorn  and  his  own  pride,  he  felt  that  he  must 
speak  with  her  once  more  before  she  went  away.  She  had 
decided  to  go  this  day,  the  day  of  his  home-coming.  That 
meant  simply  that  she  was  leaving  because  of  him. 

Winnie  was  seated  in  a  cavernous  chair,  looking  extremely 
comfortable,  and,  apparently,  occupied  with  a  late  magazine. 
She  glanced  up  as  Alan  entered,  then  hastily  resumed  her 
reading. 

Seeing  her  so  deeply  absorbed,  he  crossed  the  room,  and 
looked  out  upon  the  street  for  a  moment,  then  slowly  turned 
his  back  upon  the  window  and  began  a  steady  march  up  and 
down  the  drawing-room,  keeping  to  the  end  farthest  from 
that  occupied  by  Winnie,  and  casting  upon  her,  when  his 
march  brought  her  within  view,  long,  earnest  glances. 

That  she  was  wilfully  feigning  unconsciousness  of  his 
presence,  he  felt  assured.  That  she  should  finally  recognize 
that  presence,  he  was  obstinately  determined. 

But  Winnie  is  not  as  composed  as  she  seems,  and  his  steady 


420  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

march  up  and  down  becomes  very  irritating.  Lowering  her 
book  suddenly,  she  turns  sharply  in  her  chair. 

"Mr.  Warburton,  allow  me  to  mention  that  your  boots 
creak,"  she  says  tartly. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Winnie." 

"  No,  you  do  not !  I  can't  see  why  you  must  needs  choose 
this  room  for  your  tramping,  when  all  the  house  is  quite  at 
your  disposal." 

Alan  stops  and  stands  directly  before  her. 

"I  came,  Winnie,  because  you  were  here,"  he  says  gently. 

"Well,"  taking  up  her  book  and  turning  her  shoulder  to- 
wards him,  "if  you  can't  make  yourself  less  disagreeable,  I 
shall  leave,  presently,  because  you  are  here." 

Paying  no  heed  to  her  petulant  words,  he  draws  forward  a 
chair  and  seats  himself  before  her. 

"  Winnie,"  he  says  gravely,  "  what  is  this  that  I  hear  from 
your  mother:  you  wish  to  leave  Warburtou  Place?" 

"I  intend  to  leave  Warburton  Place." 

"Why,  Winnie?" 

"Pray  don't  make  my  name  the  introduction  or  climax  to 
all  your  sentences,  Mr.  Warburton ;  I  quite  comprehend  that 
you  are  addressing  me.  Why  do  I  leave  Warburton  place? 
Because  I  have  staid  long  enough.  I  have  staid  on,  for  Les- 
lie's sake,  until  I'm  discouraged  with  waiting."  There  is  a 
flush  upon  her  cheeks  and  a  hysterical  quiver  in  her  voice. 
"I  have  remained  because  it  was  her  home,  and  at  her  request. 
Now  that  her  absence  makes  you  master  here,  I  will  stay  no 
longer.  It  wras  you  who  drove  her  away  with  your  base,  false 
suspicions.  I  will  never  forgive  you;  I  will  never — " 

There  is  a  sound  behind  her.  She  has  risen  to  her  feet,  and 
she  sees  that  Alan  is  not  heeding  her  words;  his  eyes  are 


WHAT  PIAPPENED  AT  WARBURTOX  PLACE.  421 

turned  toward  the  door;  they  light  up  strangely,  and  as  he 
springs  forward,  Winnie  hastily  turns. 

Standing  in  the  doorway,  pale  and  careworn  but  slightly 
smiling,  is  Leslie  Warburton,  and  she  holds  little  Daisy  tightly 
clasped  in  her  arms;  Daisy  Warburton  surely,  though  so 
pallid,  and  clad  in  rags! 

As  Alan  springs  forward,  she  holds  out  the  child. 

"Alan,  I  have  kept  my  word,"  she  says  gently,  wearily; 
"  I  have  brought  back  little  Daisy." 

It  is  the  end  of  her  wonderful  endurance.  As  Alan  snatches 
the  child  to  his  breast,  she  sinks  forward  and  again,  as  on 
that  last  day  of  her  presence  here,  she  lies  senseless  at 
his  feet. 

But  now  his  looks  are  not  cold;  he  does  not  call  a  servant; 
but  turning  swiftly  he  puts  the  child  in  Winnie's  arms,  and 
kneels  beside  Leslie. 

As  he  kneels,  he  notes  the  presence  of  a  man  in  sombre  at- 
tire, and  behind  him,  the  peering  face  of  a  servant. 

"Call  Mrs.  French,"  he  says,  chafing  the  lifeless  hands. 
"  Bring  restoratives — quick !" 

And  he  lifts  her  tenderly,  and  carries  her  to  a  divan. 

Then  for  a  time  all  is  confusion.  There  is  talking,  laugh- 
ing, crying;  Mrs.  French  is  here,  and  Millie,  and  presently 
every  other  servant  of  the  household. 

For  a  moment,  Winnie  seems  about  to-drop  her  clinging 
burden.  Then  suddenly  her  face  lights  up ;  she  clasps  Daisy 
closer,  and  drawing  near,  she  watches  those  who  minister  to 
the  unconscious  one. 

Leslie  revives  slowly  and  looks  about  her,  making  a  weak 
effort  to  rise. 

"Be  quiet,"  says  the  stranger  in  the  priestly  garments,  who 


422  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

has  "kept  his  head"  while  all  the  others  seem  dazed ;  "be 
quiet,  madam.  Let  me  explain  to  your  friends." 

As  he  speaks,  Alan  stoops  over  Winnie,  and  kisses  the  little 
one  tenderly,  but  he  does  not  offer  to  take  her  from  Winnie's 
clasp.  He  turns  instead  and  bends  over  Leslie. 

"Obey  him,  Leslie,"  he  says  softly.  "We  will  tell  you 
how  glad  we  are  by  and  by." 

She  looks  wonderingly  into  his  face,  then  closes  her  eyes 
wearily. 

"He  can  tell  you,"  she  whispers;  "I — I  cannot." 

And  then  there  is  silence,  while  Alan,  in  compliance  with 
a  hint  from  the  seeming  Priest,  motions  the  servants  out  of  the 
room,  all  but  Millie.  Daisy  has  siezedher  hand  and  clings  to 
it  obstinately. 

"  Let  her  stay,"  whispers  Winnie.  And  of  course  Millie  stays. 

When  they  have  filed  out,  Alan  moves  forward,  his  hand 
extended  to  close  the  door,  and  then  he  stops  short,  his  atti- 
tude unchanged,  and  listens. 

There  are  voices  outside,  and  approaching  feet.  He  hears 
the  remonstrance  of  a  servant,  and  an  impatient  tone  of  com- 
mand. And  then  a  man  strides  into  their  presence,  closely 
followed  by  two  officers. 

It  is  Van  Vernet,  his  eyes  flashing,  his  face  triumphant ; 
Van  Vernet  in  propia  personne,  and  wearing  the  dress  of  a 
gentleman. 

He  pauses  before  Alan,  and  delivers  a  mocking  salute. 

"  Alan  Warburton,  you  are  my  prisoner !" 

With  a  cry  of  alarm,  Leslie  lifts  herself  from  the  couch. 
She  knows  what  these  words  mean. 

Alan  starts  as  he  hears  this  cry,  and  moving  a  pace  nearer 
Vernet,  says,  in  a  low  tone : 


"Alan,  I  have  kept  my  word;  I  have  brought  back  littlaDaisy."— page 

423 


424  DAXGEROrS  GROUND. 

"I  will  go  with  you,  sir;  but  withdraw  yourself  and  men 
from  this  room ;  I — " 

Something  touches  his  arm. 

He  turns  to  see  Winnie  close  beside  him,  her  face  flushing 
and  paling,  her  breath  coming  in  quick  gasps. 

"Alan,"  she  whispers,  "what  does  he  mean?" 

Alan  takes  her  quivering  hand  in  his,  and  tenderly  seeks  to 
draw  her  back. 

"He  means  what  he  says,  Winnie.  He  is  an  officer  of  the 
law." 

"A  prisoner!  you!  Oh,  Alan,  why,  why?" 

The  tone  of  anguish,  and  the  look  in  Alan's  eyes,  reveal  to 

O  /  »r  ' 

Vernet  the  situation.  This  is  the  woman  beloved  by  Alan 
Warburton;  now  his  triumph  over  the  haughty  aristocrat  will 
be  sweet  indeed.  Now  he  can  strike  through  her.  Stepping 
forward,  he  lays  a  hand  upon  Alan's  arm. 

"Mr.  Warburton,"  he  says  sternly,  "I  must  do  my  duty. 
Bob,  bring  the  handcuffs." 

As  the  officer  thus  addressed  moves  forward,  Winnie  French 
utters  a  cry  of  anguish,  and  flings  herself  before  Alan. 

"You  shall  not!"  she  cries  wildly.  "You  dare  not!  What 
has  he  done  ?" 

Vernet  looks  straight  at  his  prisoner,  and  smiles  triumphantly. 

"Mr.  Warburton  is  accused  of  murder,"  he  says  impres- 
sively. 

"Murder!"  Winnie  turns  and  looks  up  into  Alan's  face. 
"Alan,  oh,  Alan,  it  is  not  true?" 

"I  am  accused  of  murder,  Winnie,  but  it  is  not  true." 

"  Oh,  Alan  !  Alan  !  Alan !"  She  flings  her  arms  about  him 
clinging  with  passionate  despair,  sobbing  and  moaning  piti- 
fully. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  WARBURTON  PLACE.  425 

And  Alan  clasps  her  close  and  a  glad  light  leaps  into  his 
eyes.  For  one  moment  he  remembers  nothing,  save  that,  after 
all  her  assumed  coldness,  Winnie  French  loves  him. 

Still  folding  her  in  his  arms,  he  half  leads,  half  carries  her 
to  the  divan  where  Leslie  sits  trembling  and  wringing  her 
hands. 

"Winnie,  darling,"  he  whispers,  "do  you  really  care?" 

Then  as  Mrs.  French  extends  her  arms,  he  withdrew  his 
clasp  and  turns  once  more  toward  Vernet. 

"  End  this  scene  at  once,"  he  says  haughtily.  "Task  no- 
thing at  your  hands,  Van  Vernet.  Secure  me  at  once;  I  am 
dangerous  to  you." 

He  extends  his  hands,  and  casts  upon  Vernet  a  look  full 
of  contempt.  It  causes  the  latter  to  feel  that,  somehow,  his 
triumph  is  not  quite  complete  after  all.  But  he  will  not  lose 
one  single  privilege,  not  abate  one  jot  of  his  power.  He  takes 
the  manacles  from  the  hands  of  his  assistant,  and  steps  for- 
ward. No  one  else  shall  adjust  them  upon  these  white,  slender 
wrists. 

At  that  instant,  as  Leslie  rises  to  her  feet,  uttering  a  cry 
of  terror,  there  is  a  sudden  commotion  at  the  door;  one  of  the 
officers  is  flung  out  of  the  way,  and  a  strong  hand  strikes  the 
handcuffs  from  Vernet's  grasp. 

He  utters  an  imprecation  and  turning  swiftly  is  face  to  face 
with  Franz  Francoise! 

"You!"  he  exclaims  hoarsely.  "How  came  you  here? 
Boys—" 

The  two  officers  move  forward.  But  the  seeming  Priest, 
who  has  stood  in  the  back  ground  a  silent  spectator,  now  steps 
before  them. 

"Hold  on!"  he  says;  "don't  burn  your  fingers,  boys." 


426  DANGfiitOtfS  GROUND. 


"Answer  me,"  vociferates  Vernet;  "  who  brought  you  here, 
fellow?  What—" 

"Oh,  it  ain't  the  first  time  I've  slipped  through  your  fingers, 
Van  Vernet,"  the  new-comer  says  mockingly. 

Then  seeing  the  terror  in  Leslie's  eyes,  he  snatches  the  wig 
and  moustache  from  his  head  and  face,  and  turns  toward  Alan. 

"Mr.  Warburton,"  he  says  courteously,  "I  see  that  I  am 
here  in  time.  I  trust  that  you  have  suffered  nothing  at  the 
hands  of  my  colleague,  save  his  impertinence.  Van,  your 
game  is  ended.  You've  played  it  like  a  man,  but  you  were  in 
the  wrong  and  you  have  failed.  Thank  your  stars  that  your 
final  blunder  has  been  nipped  in  the  bud.  Alan  Warburton 
is  an  innocent  man.  The  murderer,  if  you  choose  to  call  him 
such,  is  safely  lodged  in  jail  by  now." 

But  Van  Vernet  says  never  a  word.  He  only  gazes  at  the 
transformed  ex-convict  as  if  fascinated. 

Another  gaze  is  riveted  upon  him  also.  Leslie  Warburton 
leans  forward,  her  lips  parted,  her  face  eager  ;  she  seems  listen- 
ing rather  than  seeing.  Slowly  a  look  of  relieved  intelligence 
creeps  into  her  face,  and  swiftly  the  red  blood  suffuses  cheek 
and  brow.  Then  she  comes  forward,  her  hands  extended. 

"  Mr.  Stanhope,  is  it  —  was  it  you  ?" 

"  It  is  and  was  myself,  Mrs.  Warburton.  There  is  no  other 
Franz  Francoise  in  existence.  The  part  I  assumed  was  a 
hideous  one,  but  it  was  necessary." 

"Stanhope  !"  At  the  name,  Alan  Warburton  starts  forward. 
"Are  you  Richard  Stanhope?" 

"I  am."  And  then,  as  he  catches  the  reflection  of  his  half 
disguised  self  in  a  mirror,  he  gives  vent  to  a  short  laugh. 
"  We  form  quite  a  contrast,  my  friend  Vernet  and  I,"  he  says 
with  a  downward  glance  at  his  uncouth  garments.  "Mr, 


"Vernet  utiers  ;ui  impix-c;iiioij,  and  turning  swiftly,  is  face  to  face  with 

ITranz  Francoisel" — page  435. 

427 


428  DAKGEROtTS  GROtTN!\ 

Warburton,  \ve — for  your  brother's  wife  lias  done  more  than 
I — have  brought  back  your  little  one.  And  I  have  managed 
to  keep  you  out  of  the  clutches  of  this  mistaken  Expert,  or  at 
least  to  prevent  his  l  grip'  from  doing  you  any  serious  damage. 
Of  course  you  are  anxious  to  hear  all  about  it,  "but  I  am  waited 
for  at  head-quarters;  my  story,  to  make  it  comprehensible, 
must  needs  be  a  long  one,  and  I  have  asked  Mr.  Follingsbee 
to  meet  me  there.  He  can  soon  put  you  in  possession  of  the 
facts.  Now  a  word  of  suggestion :  This  lady,"  glancing  to- 
wards Leslie,  "has  been  very  ill;  she  is  still  weak.  She  has 
fought  a  brave  fight,  and  but  for  her  your  little  girl  might 
still  be  missing.  She  needs  rest.  Do  not  press  her  to  tell 
her  story  now.  When  you  have  heard  my  report  from  Mr. 
Follingsbee,  you  will  comprehend  everything." 

Leslie  sinks  back  upon  the  divan,  for  she  is  indeed  weak. 
Her  face  flushes  and  pales,  her  hands  tremble,  and  her  eyes 
follow  the  movements  of  the  detective  with  strange  fixedness. 
Then  she  catches  little  Daisy  in  her  arms,  and  holding  her 
thus,  looks  again  at  their  rescuer. 

Meantime,  Van  Vernet  has  seemed  like  a  man  dazed ;  has 
stood  gazing  from  one  to  the  other,  listening,  wondering,  gnaw- 
ing his  thin  under  lip.  But  now  he  turns  slowly  and  makes 
a  signal  to  his  two  assistants,  who,  like  himself,  have  been 
stunned  into  automatons  by  the  sudden  change  of  events. 

"Stop,  Vernet !"  says  Stanhope,  noting  the  sign.  "  Just 
one  word  with  you:  Our  difference,  not  to  call  it  by  a  harsher 
name,  our  active  difference  began  in  this  house,  when,  on 
the  night  of  a  certain  masquerade,  you  contrived  to  delay  me 
here  while  you  stepped  into  my  shoes.  I  discovered  your 
scheme  that  night,  and  since  then  I  have  not  scrupled  to  thwart 
you  in  every  way ;  how,  and  by  what  means,  it  will  give  me 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  WARBURTON  PLACE.  429 

pleasure  to  explain  later.  For  the  present,  here,  where  our 
feud  began,  let  it  end.  I  shall  give  a  full  history  of  our  ex- 
ploits, yours  and  mine,  to  our  Chief,  to  Mr.  Follingsbee,  and 
of  course  to  these  now  present.  This  much  is  in  justice  tc> 
myself,  and  to  you.  I  think  that  I  have  influence  enough  at 
head-quarters  to  keep  the  story  from  going  further,  and — don't 
fancy  me  too  magnanimous — I  shall  do  this  for  the  sake  of 
Mrs.  Warburton,  and  of  Mr.  Alan  Warburton,  whom  you 
have  persecuted  so  persistently  and  mistakenly.  As  you  have 
not  succeeded  in  dragging  their  names  into  a  public  scandal, 
I  shall  withhold  yours  from  public  derision ;  and  believe  me 
when  I  say  that  our  feud  ends  here.  In  the  beginning,  you 
took  up  the  cudgel  against  me,  to  decide  which  is  the  better 
man.  Put  on  the  defensive,  I  have  done  my  level  best,  and 
stand  ready  to  be  judged  by  my  works.  For  the  rest;  I  am 
saying  too  much  here.  I  do  not  wish  nor  intend  to  humil- 
iate you  unnecessarily.  If  you  will  wait  for  me  outside,  I  can 
suggest  something  which  you  may  profit  by,  if  you  choose." 

There  is  nothing  that  Van  Vernet  can  say  in  reply.  He 
is  conquered,  and  he  knows  it  well.  No  scornful  retort 
rises  to  his  tongue,  and  there  is  little  of  his  accustomed 
haughty  grace  in  his  step,  as  he  turns  silently  and  leaves  the 
room,  followed  by  his  overawed,  astounded  and  silent  assist- 
ants. 

At  least  he  has  the  merit  of  knowing  when  he  is  defeated, 
and  he  accepts  the  inevitable  in  sullen  silence. 

Then  Richard  Stanhope  turns  again  to  Leslie. 

"Madam,"  he  says,  with  hesitating  deference,  "I  have  kept 
my  word  as  best  I  could,  and  I  leave  you  in  the  hands  of  your 
friends.  Forgive  me  for  any  rudeness  of  mine,  for  any  un- 
pleasant moments  I  may  have  caused  you,  while  I  was  playing 


430  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

the  part  of  Franz  Francoise.  We  could  have  won  our  battle 
in  no  other  way.  To-morrow,  I  will  place  in  your  hands, 
through  Mr.  Follingsbee,  some  papers  which  will,  I  believe, 
prove  most  valuable.  I  trust  that  you  will  never  again  have 
need  of  the  aid  of  a  detective.  Still,  should  you  ever  require  a 
service  which  I  can  render,  I  am  always  at  your  command." 

With  a  hasty  movement,  as  if  in  defiance  of  that  which 
sought  to  hold  her  back,  Leslie  rises  and  extends  both  her 
hands. 

"  I  cannot  thank  you,"  she  says  earnestly;  "  words  are  too 
weak.  But  no  man  will  ever  stand  above  you  in  my  esteem. 
In  time  of  trouble  or  danger,  I  could  turn  to  you  with  fullest 
trust,  not  as  a  detective  only,  but  as  a  friend,  as  a  man ;  the 
truest  of  men,  the  bravest  of  the  brave !" 

Something  in  her  voice  vibrated  pitifully,  then  choked  her 
utterance.  She  trembled  violently,  and  all  the  life  went  out 
of  her  face. 

As  she  sank  back,  Stanhope  gently  released  her  hands,  and 
stepping  aside  to  make  way  for  Mrs.  French  and  Winnie,  said 
in  a  low  tone  to  Alan : 

"She  has  been  terribly  tried  ;  do  not  let  her  talk  until  she 
is  stronger.  She  needs  a  physician's  care." 

"She  shall  have  it,"  returned  Alan,  moving  with  Stanhope 
toward  the  door.  "Mr.  Stanhope,  I — I  know,  through  Mr. 
Follingsbee,  of  the  interest  you  have  taken  in  my  welfare,  but 
I  realize  to-day,  as  I  could  not  before,  how  much  your  pro- 
tection has  been  worth.  I  see  what  would  have  been  the  re- 
sult of  my  remaining  here.  Vernet  would  have  dragged  me 
before  the  public,  as  a  felon.  But  you  are  eager  to  go.  I 
will  not  attempt  to  express  my  gratitude  now ;  I  expect  and 
intend  to  see  you  again,  here  and  elsewhere," 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  WARBURTON  PLACE.  431 

He  extended  his  hand  and  clasped  that  of  Stanhope  with  a 
hearty  pressure. 

And  then,  with  a  sign  to  the  sham  Priest  who  had  been  his 
silent  abettor.  Stanhope  hurried  from  the  room  and  from  the 
house. 

Vernet  was  standing  alone  on  the  pavement.  His  two  assist- 
ants, having  been  dismissed,  wore  already  some  distance  away. 

"  I  have  waited,"  he  said,  turning  his  face  at  Stanhope's  ap- 
proach, but  without  changing  his  position  of  body,  "because 
I  would  not  gratify  you  by  running  away.  Have  you  any- 
thing further  to  add  to  your  triumph  ?" 

For  a  moment  Stanhope's  eyes  seemed  piercing  him  through 
and  through.  Then  he  smiled. 

"  When  our  Chief  told  me,  Van,"  lie  said  slowly,  "  that  you 
had  determined  to  try  your  strength  against  mine,  I  felt  hurt, 
but  not  angry.  That  was  a  disappointment;  it  was  the  game 
you  played  at  the  masquerade  which  has  cost  you  this  present 
humiliation.  But  for  that  night,  I  swear  to  you,  I  should 
never  have  interfered,  never  laid  a  straw  in  your  way.  Let 
us  move  on,  Van,  and  talk  as  we  go." 

He  made  a  signal  to  the  disguised  officer  standing  near  him, 
and  that  individual,  accepting  his  dismissal  by  a  quick  nod, 
moved  down  the  street  with  an  alacrity  quite  unbecoming  to 
his  clerical  garb. 

Then  Stauhope  and  Vernet,  Victor  and  Vanquished,  turned 
their  steps  in  the  opposite  direction. 

For  some  moments  Veruet  paced  on  in  silence,  savagely 
gnawing  at  his  under  lip.  Then  professional  curiosity  broke 
through  his  chagrin. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  how  you  did  it,"  he  said,  his  face 
flushing. 


432  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Stanhope  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  favored  his  interlocutor 
with  an  uncouth  grimace. 

"Easy  'nuff,"  he  said  ;  "Hoop  la!" 

Vernet  started  and  stared.     "Silly  Charlie!"  he  ejaculated. 

"That's  the  ticket;  how  did  I  do  the  role?" 

Vernet  ground  his  teeth,  and  pondered  over  this  startling 
bit  of  intelligence.  At  last: 

"I  understand  why  the  Raid  failed,"  he  said,  "but  I  don't 
comprehend — " 

"Let  me  clear  it  up,"  broke  in  Stanhope.  "You  see,  I 
had  often  explored  those  alleys,  disguised  as  Silly  Charlie; 
the  character  was  one  that  admitted  me  everywhere.  Before 
going  to  the  masquerade,  I  had  prepared  for  the  night's  work 
by  putting  my  toilet  articles  in  a  carriage,  and  stationing  it 
near  the  festive  mansion.  This  I  did  to  insure  myself  against 
possible  delay,  my  programme  being  to  drive  to  the  agency, 
start  my  men,  and  then  go  on  ahead  of  them,  assuming  my 
disguise  as  I  went,  for  the  purpose  of  reconnoitring  the 
grounds  for  the  last  time,  before  leading  the  men  into  the  alleys. 
You  delayed  me  a  little,  and  I  had  to  deal  with  your  'China- 
man' in  such  a  way  as  to  leave  in  his  mind  a  very  unfavorable 
opinion  of  'Hail  Columbia.'  But  I  was  there  ahead  of  you 
after  all;  for  particulars — ahem!  consult  your  memory." 

His  eyes  twinkled  merrily  at  the  recollection  of  Vernet  in 
the  cellar  trap,  and  he  suppressed  a  laugh  with  difficulty. 

Again  Vernet  reddened  and  bit  his  under  lip. 

"Oh,  you  have  outwitted  me,"  he  said  bitterly,  "but  you 
will  never  be  able  to  prove  it  was  not  Warburton  who  per- 
sonated the  Sailor  that  night." 

"  I  won't  try,  for  it  was  Warburton.  I  shall  not  explain 
his  presence  there,  however;  it  was  a  mistake  on  his  part, 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  WARBURTON  PLACE.  433 

but  he  meant  well.     It  was  not   he  who  did  the  killing." 

"You  are  bent  on  clearing  Warburton,  but  how  will  you 
prove  his  innocence?" 

"By  a  witness  who  saw  Papa  Francoise  strike  the  blow." 

"Who?" 

"  A  girl  known  as  Rag-picker  Nance.  She  was  in  the  custody 
of  the  Francoises  when  I  made  my  appearance  among  them, 
in  the  character  of  Franz.  They  were  afraid  of  her  and  kept 
her  drugged  and  drunk  constantly.  They  wanted  to  be  rid 
of  her,  and  I  took  her  on0  their  hands  one  dark  night — the 
same  night,  by  the  by,  that  came  so  near  being  your  last,  in 
that  burning  tenement.  Heavens!  but  that  old  woman  is  a 
tigress !  In  spite  of  me,  she  managed  to  fire  the  building.  It 
came  near  being  the  end  of  you." 

Vernet  turned  and  eyed  him  sharply. 

"  Was  it  you,"  he  asked,  "who  brought  me  out?" 

Stanhope  blushed,  and  then  laughed  carelessly  to  conceal 
his  embarrassment. 

"  Well,  yes,"  headmitted ;  "I'm  sorry  to  say  that  it  was.  It 
was  a  great  piece  of  impertinence  on  my  part;  but,  you  see,  I 
had  the  advantage  over  the  others  of  knowing  that  you  were 
up  there." 

Vernet  wore  the  look  of  a  man  who  sees  what  he  cannot 
comprehend. 

"You're  a  riddle  to  me,"  he  said.  "You  upset  a  man's  plans 
and  boast  of  it  openly.  You  do  him  a  monstrous  favor,  you 
save  his  life,  and  admit  it  with  the  sheepishness  of  a  chicken- 
thief." 

"Well,  you  see,  I  feel  sheepish,"  confessed  Stanhope  flip- 
pantly." "  I  blush  for  so  such  Sunday-school  sentiment.  This 
habit  of  putting  in  my  oar  to  interfere  with  the  designs  of 

28  *19 


434  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Providence,  is  a  weakness  in  a  man  of  my  cloth.  Don't  give 
me  away,  Van ;  I'll  never  tell  of  it." 

Light  as  were  the  words,  Vernet  well  understood  their 
meaning.  The  episode  of  «the  blazing  tenement — his  burnt- 
cork  essay,  with  its  ludicrous  beginning  and  its  almost  tragical 
end — was  to  be  kept  a  secret  between  them.  When  he  could, 
in  justice  to  others,  Stanhope  would  spare  his  defeated  rival. 

Vernet's  is  not  the  only  mind  that  would  find  it  difficult 
to  comprehend  this  generous  nature,  turning,  for  the  sake  of  a 
less  fortunate  companion,  his  own  brave  deeds  into  a  jest. 

For  some  moments  they  walked  on  in  silence.  Then  Vernet 
said: 

"  Of  course,  I  see  that  there  is  a  mystery  between  Alan  War- 
burton  and  these  Francoises,  and  that  you  intend  to  keep  the 
mystery  from  publicity.  But  I  don't  see  how  you  can  prose- 
cute this  case  without  bringing  Warburton  into  court." 

"What  case?" 

"  Papa  Francoise,  for  the  murder  of  the  Jew." 

"Say,  the  killing  of  the  Jew;  it  was  only  manslaughter. 
We  shall  not  press  that  case." 

"What!" 

"There  is  an  older  charge  against  Papa  Francoise,  and  a 
weightier  one." 

"  What  is  that?" 

"It's  the  end  of  your  search  and  mine,  Van.  When  I  ar- 
rested Papa  Francoise  to-day,  I  arrested  the  murderer  of  Arthur 
Pearson  /" 

"What!" 

Van  Vernet  stopped  short  and  faced  his  companion,  his  face 
growing  ashen  white. 

"  Jt's  true,  Van.,    In  trying  to  relieve  the  sufferings  of  a 


"When  I  arrested  Papa  Francoise  to-day,  I  arrested  the  murderer  of 
Arthur  Pearson!" — page  434 

435 


436  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

dying  man,  I  stumbled  upon  the  clue  I  might  have  sought 
after,  and  failed  to  find,  for  an  hundred  years." 

They  had  halted  at  a  street  corner,  and  Van  Vernet  wheeled 
sharply  about  and  made  a  step  forward. 

"  Vernet,  where  are  you  going?" 

"Nowhere;  never  mind  me;  we  part  here." 

"Not  yet,  Van,  I  want  to  say — " 

"Not  now,"  broke  in  Vernet  huskily.  "You — have  said 
enough — for  once." 

And  he  strode  hurriedly  down  the  side  street. 

"Poor  Van,"  soliloquized  Stanhope,  as  he  gazed  after  the 
retreating  figure.  "Poor  fellow;  defeat  and  loss  of  fortune 
are  too  much  for  him." 

And  he  turned  and  went  thoughtfully  on  toward  his  own 
abode. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

HOW  STANHOPE  CAME  BACK. 

Again  we  are  in  the  office  of  the  Chief  of  the  detectives;  in 
his  private  office,  where  he  sits  alone,  looking  bored  and  un- 
comfortable. 

"Everybody  late,"  he  mutters,  "and  I  hoped  Follingsbee 
would  come  first." 

He  consults  his  watch,  and  finds  that  it  is  four  o'clock. 
Four  o'clock,  and  his  interviews  with  the  lawyer,  the  Austra- 
lian, and  the  Englishman,  yet  to  come. 

Ten  minutes  more  of  waiting.  Then  the  boy  enters  to  an- 
nounce Messrs. Parks  and  Ainsworth. 


HOW  STANHOPE  CAME  BACK.  437 

The  Chief  rises  to  receive  them,  and  accepts  their  excuses  in 
silence. 

"  We  drove  about  the  city,"  says  "Walter  Parks,  "  to  pass 
away  a  portion  of  the  time.  An  accident  to  our  vehicle  de- 
tained us." 

Then  the  two  men  sit  down  and  look  expectantly  at  the 
Chief. 

"Mr.  Ainsworth,"  he  says  gravely,  "I  have  news  for  you 
of  Thomas  Uliman  and  his  wife;  bad  news,  I  regret  to  say." 

"  Bad  news !"  The  Australian's  face  pales  as  he  speaks. 
"Tell  it  at  once,  sir." 

"Thomas  Uliman  and  his  wife  are  both  dead." 

The  Australian  bows  his  head  upon  his  hand  and  remains 
silent. 

"I  can  furnish  you  with  dates  and  addresses  that  will  en- 
able you  to  make  personal  investigation.  In  fact,  I  am  every 
moment  expecting  a  visit  from  the  gentleman  who  was  Mr. 
Uliman's  legal  adviser." 

"Ah,"  sighs  the  Australian,  "he  may  tell  me  where  to  find 
my  little  daughter" 

"  I  have  also,"  resumes  the  Chief,  "  a  brief  report  from  Mr. 
Vernet." 

At  these  words  Walter  Parks  leans  forward. 

"May  we  hear  it?"  he  asks  anxiously. 

"Mr.  Follingsbee,  sir,"  says  the  office-boy  at  the  door,  in 
obedience  to  orders.  And  then  Mr.  Follingsbee  enters. 

"I  think,"  says  the  Chief,  after  performing  the  ceremony 
of  introduction,  "I  think  that  we  may  waive  all  other  busi- 
ness until  Mr.  Ainsworth's  anxiety  has  been,  in  a  measure, 
relieved." 

"By  all  means,"  acquiesced  Walter  Parks,  suppressing  his 


438  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

own  feelings  and  withdrawing  his  chair  a  little  into  the  back- 
ground. 

Then  John  Ainsworth  turns  to  the  lawyer  an  anxious  face. 

"I  am  told  that  you  knew  Thomas  Uliman  and  his  wife/' 
he  begins  abruptly. 

"The  late  Thomas  Uliman,"  corrects  the  lawyer;  "  yes,  sir." 

"How  long  have  they  been  dead  ?" 

"  More  than  three  years.     They  died  in  the  same  year." 

"  Allow  me" — the  Chief  interrupts.  "  This  gentleman,  Mr. 
Follingsbee,  is  the  only  brother  of  the  late  Mrs.  Uliman. 
He  has  just  been  informed  of  her  death." 

"  Indeed!"  Mr.  Follingsbee  rises  and  extends  his  hand. 
"I  have  heard  her  speak  of  her  brother  John,"  he  says. 
"  She  grew  to  believe  that  you  were  dead." 

"And  my  daughter,  my  little  girl — did  she  think  that, 
too?" 

"Your  daughter?"  Mr.  Follingsbee  turns  an  inquiring 
look  upon  the  Chief.  "Pardon  me,  I — I  don't  understand." 

"  My  child — I  sent  my  child  to  her  aunt — twenty  years 
ago." 

Again  Mr.  Follingsbee  looks  from  one  face  to  the  other  in- 
quiringly, and  an  expression  of  apprehension  crosses  the  face 
of  the  Chief. 

"  Mr.  Ains worth's  daughter  was  less  than  three  years  old 
when  she  was  sent  to  Mr.  Uli man's  care.  In  searching  out 
the  history  of  this  family,  I  learn  that  they  left  an  adopted 
daughter,"  the  Chief  explained. 

Mr.  Follingsbee  coughs  nervously. 

"They  left  such  a  daughter,"  he  says,  hesitatingly,  "  but 
— she  was  an  adopted  daughter — the  child  of  unknown 
parents." 


BOW  STANHOPE  CAME  BACK.  439 

Slowly  John  Ainsworth  rises  to  his  feet,  his  eyes  turning 
appealingly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  My  God !"  he  exclaims  hoarsely,  "  where  then  is  my 
child?" 

In  silence  the  three  who  sympathize  with  this  father,  look 
at  one  another  helplessly.  And  as  they  sit  thus  silent,  from 
the  outer  office  comes  the  sound  of  a  clear,  ringing,  buoyant 
laugh. 

Instantly  the  Chief  starts  forward,  but  the  door  flies  open 
in  his  face,  and  Richard  Stanhope  stands  upon  the  threshold. 

"Stanhope!"  exclaims  the  Chief;  "why,  Dick!" 

"It's  me,"  says  Stanhope,  siezing  the  proffered  hand  and 
giving  it  a  hearty  pressure.  "  Oh,  and  here's  Mr.  Follingsbee. 
Glad  you  are  here,  sir." 

As  he  grasps  the  hand  of  the  lawyer  he  notes,  with  a  start 
of  surprise  the  presence  of  Walter  Parks. 

"Mr.  Parks!"  he  exclaims,  "this  is  better  than  I  hoped 
for." 

And  then  his  eyes  rest  upon  John  Ainsworth's  disturbed 
countenance. 

"Mr.  Stanhope,"  the  Chief  says  gravely,  "this  is  Mr.  Ains- 
worth, late  of  Australia.  He  is  interested  in  your  search  al- 
most equally  with  Mr.  Parks." 

The  detective  starts,  and  scans  the  face  of  the  Australian 
with  strange  eagerness.  Evidently  his  impressions  are  satis- 
factory for  his  face  lights  up  as  he  asks: 

"  Not — not  Mr.  John  Ainsworth,  once  the  friend  of  Arthur 
Pearson?" 

"The  same,"  replies  Walter  Parks,  for  John  Ainsworth 
seems  unable  to  speak. 

"Then,"  and  he  extends  his  hand  to  Mr.  Ainsworth,  "this 


440  DANGEROlft  GROUND. 

is  indeed  a  most  opportune  meeting.  My  lack  of  knowledge 
concerning  you,  sir,  was  my  one  anxiety  this  morning." 

The  four  office-chairs  being  occupied,  Stanhope  perches  him- 
self upon  the  corner  of  the  desk,,  say  ing,  as  the  Chief  makes  a 
movement  toward  the  bell: 

"Don't  ring,  sir;  I'm  quite  at  home  here." 

And  he  looks  "quite  at  home;"  as  cool,  careless,  and  incon- 
sequent as  on  the  day  when,  in  that  same  room,  he  had  ac- 
cepted with  reluctance  his  commission  for  the  masquerade. 

He  had,  on  leaving  Vernet,  taken  time  to  wash  the  stains 
and  pencilings  from  his  face,  and  to  don  an  easy-fitting  busi- 
ness-suit. Stanhope  is  himself  again:  a  frank,  cheery,  con- 
fidence-inspiring presence. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  says,  gazing  from  one  to  the  other, 
"that  there  must  be  a  special  Providence  in  this  meeting  to- 
gether, at  the  right  time,  of  the  very  men  I  most  wish  to  see. 
Of  course,  your  presence  is  not  mysterious,"  nodding  toward 
his  Chief,  "  and  Mr.  Follingsbee — " 

"Is  here  at  my  request,"  interposed  the  Chief. 

"Is  he?"  queries  Stanhope.  "I  thought  he  was  here  at 
mine." 

"I  believe,"  says  the  lawyer,  smiling  slightly,  "that  your 
invitation  did  come  first,  Mr.  Stanhope." 

"  I  had  a  reason  for  desiring  Mr.  Follingsbee  to  be  present 
at  this  interview,"  explains  Stanhope.  "  And  as  I  don't  want 
to  be  unnecessarily  dramatic,  nor  to  prolong  painful  anxiety, 
let  me  leave  my  explanations  to  the  last.  Mr.  Parks,  I  be- 
lieve I  have  found  Arthur  Pearson's  murderer." 

"Oh!" 

Walter  Parks  springs  up  with  a  hoarse  cry.  John  Ains- 
worth  leans  back  in  his  chair,  pale  and  panting.  The  Chief 


"Mr.  Parks,  I  believe  I  have  found  Arthur  Pearson's  murderer  I' 

page  440. 

441' 


442  DANGEROUS 

clutches  at  Stanhope's  knee  in  excited  eagerness,  and  waits 
breathlessly  for  his  next  words. 

Only  Mr.  Folliugsbee,  who  has  never  heard  of  Arthur 
Pearson,  remains  unmoved. 

"Are  you  sure?"  articulates  the  excited  Englishman. 
"Where  is  he?  Who  Is  he?" 

"He  is  in  a  good,  strong  cell  by  this  time,  in  the  city  jail." 

"  Oh  !"  gasps  John  Ainsworth. 

And  his  name  is  Franz  Krutzer,  although  for  many  years 
he  has  been  known  as  Papa  Francoise." 

" Good  heavens !"  cries  Walter  Parks.  "Franz  Krutzer! 
why,  Stanhope — why,  Ainsworth,  it  was  that  man's  wife  who 
had  the  care  of  your  little  girl !" 

"Precisely,"  confirms  Stanhope. 

John  Aiusworth  leans  forward  and  extends  two  trembling 
hands. 

"  You  know,"  he  whispers,  "  what  do  you  know  of  my 
child?" 

And  then  as  Stanhope  hesitates,  he  cries  piteously:  "Oh,  tell 
me,  is  she  alive?" 

"I  have  not  a  doubt  of  it,"  says  Stanhope,  smiling.  "She 
was  alive  half  an  hour  ago." 

"And  safe  and  well?" 

"  And  safe  arid  well." 

"Thank  God!  Oh,  thank  God!" 

A  moment  he  bows  his  head  upon  his  hands,  then  lifts  it 
and  exclaims  eagerly  : 

"  Half  an  hour,  you  said ;  then — she  must  be  near  ?" 

"Yes;  she  is  very  near." 

"Take  me  to  her — tell  me  where  to  find  her — at  once." 

"Mr.  Ainsworth — "  Stanhope  drops  from  the  desk  and  ex- 


HOW  STANHOPE  CAME  BACK.  443 

tends  his  hand  to  the  anxious  father — "  your  daughter  is  near 
and  safe,  but  she  has  lately  passed  through  a  terrible  ordeal. 
She  is  exhausted  in  body  and  mind.  More  excitement  just 
now  might  do  her  serious  harm.  I  beg  you  to  be  patient- 
When  you  have  heard  what  I  am  about  to  tell  these  gentle- 
men and  yourself,  you  will  feel  assured  that  you  have  a  daugh- 
ter to  be  proud  of." 

With  a  sign  of  assent,  the  Australian  sinks  back  upon  his 
chair,  making  a  visible  effort  to  control  his  impatience.  And 
Stanhope  resumes  his  perch  upon  the  desk. 

"I  must  begin,"  he  said,  "  with  Mr.  Follingsbee;  and  I 
must  recall  some  things  that  may  seem  out  of  place  or  un- 
necessary. It  was  nearly  six  weeks  ago,"  addressing  himself 
to  his  Chief,  "  that  you  gave  me  a  commission  from  Mr.  Fol- 
lingsbee." 

The  Chief  nodded ;  and  the  lawyer  stared  as  if  wondering 
why  that  business  need  be  recalled. 

"I  was  to  attend  a  masquerade,"  resumes  Stanhope,  "and 
to  meet  there  the  lady  who  desired  my  services.  I  was  to  be 
escorted  by  Mr.  Follingsbee,  and  I  decided  to  wear,  for  the 
sake  of  convenience,  a  dress  1  bought  in  Europe,  and  which  I 
had  there  worn  at  a  masquerade  that  I  attended  in  company 
with  Van  Vernet.  After  accepting  this  commission,  and  re- 
ceiving my  instructions,  I  put  on  a  rough  disguise,  and  went 
to  a  certain  locality  which  we  had  selected  as  the  place  for  a 
Raid  that  would  move  the  following  night.  I  was  to  leave 
the  ball  at  a  very  early  hour,  in  order  to  conduct  this  Raid. 
And  to  make  sure  that  none  of  my  birds  should  slip  through 
my  fingers,  I  went,  as  I  have  said,  on  the  night  before,  to  rec- 
onnoitre the  grounds.  In  a  sort  of  Thieves'  Tavern,  where 
the  worst  of  criminals  assembled,  I  found  a  young  fellow, 


444  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

evidently  an  escaped  convict,  in  a  hot  fight  with  some  of  the 
roughs.  I  brought  him  out  of  the  place,  and  as  he  seemed 
dying,  I  took  him  to  a  hospital,  and  left  him  in  the  care  of 
the  Sisters.  The  next  day  I  prepared  for  the  Raid,  and  the 
Masquerade." 

He  pauses  for  a  moment,  and  then  resumes  his  history,, 
telling  first,  how  in  company  with  Mr.  Follingsbee,  he  had 
entemf  the  Warburton  Mansion ;  had  been  presented  to  Leslie 
and  learned  from  her  lips  that  she  had  a  secret  to  keep ;  lu>\v 
Van  Vernet  had  discovered  his  presence  there,  and  the  means 
the  latter  had  taken  to  detain  him,  and  to  secure  the  leadership 
of  the  Raid. 

Through  the  scenes  of  that  night  he  led  his  amazed  listen- 
ers; telling  of  Leslie's  advent  among  the  Francoise  gang  ;  of 
Alan's  pursuit ;  the  killing  of  Siebel ;  and  the  manner  in  which 
he  had  outwitted  Vernet.  Then  on  through  the  days  that  fol- 
lowed; relating  how,  disguised  as  Franz  Francoise,  he  had 
appeared  before  the  two  old  plotters;  been  accepted  by  them 
as  the  real  Franz,  and  so  dwelt  among  them. 

"It  was  an  odd  part  to  play,  and  oddly  suggested,"  he  said. 
"It  was  just  after  Vernet Js  discovery  of  Alan  Warburton's 
picture,  when  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to  make  my  next  move, 
that  I  went  to  visit  my  wounded  ex-convict — the  one,  you  will 
remember,  whom  I  rescued  from  the  Thieves'  Tavern.  I 
found  him  very  low;  indeed  dying.  He  was  in  a  stupor  when 
I  came,  but  soon  passed  into  delirium,  and  his  ravings  attracted 
my  attention,  for  he  repeated  over  and  over  again  the  name 
of  Krutzer,  Franz  Krutzer.  Now,  I  had  obtained  from  Mr. 
Parks  here,  a  list  of  the  names  of  all  who  composed  that 
wagon-train,  and  I  remembered  the  name  of  Franz  Krutzer. 
And  as  he  raved  on,  I  gathered  material  enough  to  arouse  my 


HOW  STAXHOPE  CAME  BACK.  445 

suspicions  He  talked  of  a  child  whom  they  wished  to  keep; 
of  money  hoarded  and  strangely  gotten ;  of  beatings  because 
of  his  eavesdropping.  One  moment  he  defied  them  in  wild, 
boyish  bravado,  and  babbled  gleefully  of  what  he  had  over- 
heard. The  next,  he  writhed  in  imaginary  torture  under  the 
lash,  vowing  that  he  did  not  listen;  that  he  would  never  tell. 
Then  he  was  frightened  by  an  approaching  thunder-storm;  he 
was  crouching  beneath  his  blankets,  and  crying  out:  'Oh, 
don't  make  me  go  out — don't ;  I'm  afraid.  I  won't !  I  won't !' 
Then  he  seemed  to  have  returned  from  somewhere.  '  Let  me 
in  !'  he  cried.  '  I'm  wet  and  cold  ;  let  me  in,  quick  !  Yes, 
he's  there  ;  up  by  the  big  rock.  He's  fast  asleep  and  I  didn't 
wake  him.'  Then, 'where  is  dad  going?'  he  said.  'Oh," I 
don't,  I  don't ;  I  didn't  have  the  hammer.'  Then,  after  moix- 
random  talk  :  '  I  won't  tell ;  don't  beat  me.  I'll  never  tell 
that  I  saw  him  there  asleep.  Oh,  maybe  he  was  dead  then  !' 

"  1  had  not  intended  to  remain,  but  I  did.  I  never  left 
him  until  his  ravings  ceased  ;  until  the  end  came.  In  his  last 
moments,  consciousness  returned.  For  a  time  he  was  strong, 
as  the  dying  sometimes  are.  He  was  very  grateful  to  me  be- 
cause I  had  not  taken  him  back  to  the  prison  to  die,  and  he 
willingly  answered  a  few  questions  concerning  himself  and 
his  parents.  I  had  entered  him  at  the  hospital  under  a  false 
name,  and  under  that  name  he  was  buried. 

"  Immediately  after  his  death,  I  came  and  announced  my 
readiness  to  devote  myself  exclusively  to  the  Arthur  Pearson 
case.  And  as  soon  as  he  was  buried,  I  notified  the  prison- 
omcials  of  his  death,  and  asked  them  to  keep  my  information 
a  secret  for  a  time.  I  then  made  minute  inquiries  into  the 
character  and  history  of  Franz  .Francoise,  and  learned  enough 
from  the  penitentiary-officials,  and  from  his  imprisoned  com- 


446  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

rades — some  of  them,  not  knowing  of  his  death,  were  very 
anxious  to  have  him  recaptured — to  enable  me  to  personate  him 
as  I  did. 

"  When  I  presented  myself  to  the  Francoises,  it  was  with 
the  double  purpose  of  solving  the  Pearson  mystery  and  find- 
ing Daisy  Warburton,  for  I  agreed  with  Mrs.  Warburton  in 
thinking  that  they  had  stolen  the  child.  I  could  not  then 
foresee  the  complications  which  would  arise,  nor  did  I  dream 
of  the  formidable  and  fox-like  enemy  I  was  to  encounter  in 
Mamma  Francoise.  It  had  been  my  intentions  to  draw  them 
into  my  net  by  letting  them  see  that  I  knew,  or  remembered, 
too  much  about  that  Marais  des  Cygnes  aifair.  But  a  few 
days  of  the  old  woman's  society  convinced  me  that  this  would 
be  a  false  move,  and  so  I  never  once  alluded  to  the  days  so  far 
gone  by.  But  the  girl,  Nance,  was  there,  and  although  they 
would  have  concealed  it  if  they  could,  they  were  obliged  to 
tell  me  what  I  guessed  before,  that  she  was  dangerous  to  them. 
Then  I  grew  blood-thirsty,  and  professed  a  dislike  for  the 
girl.  She  was  an  encumbrance,  and  I  offered  to  remove  her. 
I  took  her  away  one  night,  and  they  imagined  her  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  river,  when  in  reality  she  was  in  the  hands  of 
merciful  women,  who  brought  back  her  senses,  and  who  still 
have  charge  of  her,  until  such  time  as  I  may  want  her  to 
test  i  fy  agai  nst  Papa.  My  i  n vestigat  ion  was  progress!  n  g  si  o wly, 
when  Mrs.  Warburton  appeared  among  us  one  night,  and  an- 
nounced her  purpose  to  remain  until  they  gave  back  little 
Daisy.  I  had  not  planned  for  this ;  and  during  the  night  I 
thought  the  matter  out  and  resolved  in  some  way  to  make  my- 
self known  to  her,  and  to  persuade  her  to  return  home  and 
leave  the  rest  to  me.  But  in  the  nu>:-:iing  she  was  in  a  raving 
Delirium." 


HOW  STANHOPE  CAME  BACK  447 

He  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  resumed,  drawing  a 
graphic  picture  of  Leslie's  life  among  the  Francoises;  telling 
how  Mamma  had  suddenly  conceived  her  famous  scheme  of 
marrying  Leslie  to  her  son;  of  Leslie's  illness,  and  how  he 
had  contrived  to  make  Dr.  Bayless — who  was  really  a  good 
physician,  albeit  he  had  been  implicated  in  some  very  crooked 
business — useful,  and  his  abettor;  giving  a  full' account  of  all 
that  had  transpired. 

"Mrs.  Warburton's  condition/'  he  concluded,  "was  such 
that  I  dared  not  confide  in  her,  as  I  had  intended.  She  was 
too  ill  and  weak  to  exercise  self-control,  and  we  had  too  much 
at  slake  to  run  any  risk.  Indeed,  I  had  begun  to  realize  what 
an  enemy  we  had  to  deal  with,  and  to  fear  that  we  could  only 
succeed  by  playing  our  desperate  game  to  the  end.  In  fact, 
there  seemed  no  alternative.  From  the  moment  of  Mrs.  War- 
burton's  coming  among  us,  Mamma's  watch  was  lynx-like.  I 
could  not  have  removed  the  lady  or  interposed  to  save  her  one 
moment's  uneasiness,  without  being  myself  betrayed.  And 
then  our  situation  would  have  been  worse  than  ever;  Mamma 
would  have  revenged  herself  upon  us  through  the  little  girl. 
At  every  point,  that  vile  old  woman  was  a  match  for  me. 
When  she  proposed  the  marriage,  I  pretended  to  withhold  my 
consent  until  she  should  tell  everything  concerning  the  lady's 
prospective  fortune.  For  two  long  weeks  I  enacted  the  part 
of  a  blustering,  drunken  ruffian  ;  cursing,  quarrelling,  threat- 
ening ;  before  I  extorted  the  truth  from  her.  Some  papers, 
that  had  accidentally  fallen  into  her  hands,  had  informed  her 
that  Mrs.  Warburton — or  the  child,  Leschen,  she  called  her — 
was  the  daughter  of  one  John  Ainsworth.  These  same  papers 
— they'were  those  confided  to  her  by  Arthur  Pearson — gave  a 
specific  account  of  the  fortune  John  Ainsworth  possessed 
time  he  left  the  mines," 


448  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Again  he  paused,  and  the  Australian  lifted  his  head,  speak- 
ing quickly. 

"  I  comprehend/'  he  said ;  "  I  sent  such  memoranda  in  a, 
letter  to  my  sister,  and  also  told  her  of  investments  I  proposed 
to  make  in  Australia.  I  wanted  her  to  understand  my  busi- 
ness affairs  for  little  Lea's  sake." 

"  And  through  these  documents,"  resumed  Stanhope,  "  the 
shrewd  old  woman  traced  your  Australian  career,  and  knew 
that  your  fortune,  in  the  twenty  years  of  your  exile,  had  swol- 
len immensely.  When  she  saw  the  advertisement  of  your 
lawyer,  she  took  alarm.  She  must  act  promptly  or,  perhaps, 
lose  her  game.  So  she  stole  the  little  girl,  hoping  to  use  her 
as  a  means  by  which  to  compel  Mrs.  Warburtoo  to  yield  up 
a  large  slice  of  her  prospective  wealth.  And  had  her  first  plan 
been  carried  out,  she  would  not  have  hesitated  to  find  means 
to  remove  from  her  path  the  greatest  obstacle  to  her  ambition 
— yourself,  Mr.  Ainsworth." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Australian  gravely.  "Yes,  it  is  quite 
probable." 

"  The  unexpected  coming  of  myself,  as  Franz  Francoise, 
and  of  Mrs.  Warburton  so  soon  after,  caused  them,  or  rather 
.Mamma,  to  reconstruct  her  plan,  as  I  have  told  you.  And 
she  reached  the  height  and  depth  of  her  cunning  by  effectually 
concealing,  from  first  to  last,  the  hiding-place  of  the  little  girl. 
Nothing  could  wring  this  secret  from  her ;  on  that  subject  she 
was  absolutely  dangerous.  She  never  visited  the  child,  .-o 
nothing  was  learned  by  shadowing  her.  Indeed,  when  she 
brought  the  child  to  the  house  to-day,  slue  eluded  the  two  men 
whom  I  had  set  to  watch  her,  and  did  it  so  cleverly  that  they 
could  not  even  guess,  after  her  first  feint,  which  way  she 
went.  And  I  was  playing  my  last  card  without  knowing 


AND  LAST.  449 

that  the  child  was  in  the  house,  when  her  pitiful  prayer  be- 
trayed her  presence. 

"Until  then  I  had  not  intended  to  reveal  myself;  the  men 
were  to  arrest  Papa  Francoise,  and  to  try  and  make  terms 
through  him  for  the  ransom  of  the  child.  One  of  my  men 
was  disguised  as  a  Priest,  and  of  course  we  had  arranged  to 
make  Papa's  arrest  cut  short  the  wedding  ceremony.  Holt, 
Beal  and  the  others  have  aided  me  wonderfully,  though  they 
do  not  yet  know  what  it  was  all  about." 

"They  shall  be  generously  rewarded,"  breaks  in  "Walter 
Parks ;  "every  man  of  them  who  has  in  any  way  assisted  you." 

Let  the  reader  imagine  all  that  followed  :  the  praises 
showered  upon  Stanhope ;  the  congratulations  of  each  to  all ; 
the  eager  questions  of  Walter  Parks ;  the  desire  of  John  Ains- 
worth  to  hear  of  his  daughter's  courage  and  devotion  over  and 
again ;  the  general  jubilation  of  the  Chief. 


CHAPTER  UX. 

A1TD  -LAST. 

"  But,"  queried  Walter  Parks,  when  question  and  comment 
had  been  exhausted,  "are  you  sure  that  we  have,  even  now, 
evidence  enough  to  convict  Krutzer,  or  Francoise,  as  you  call 
him?" 

"  He  has  called  himself  Francoise  from  the  day  he  and  his 
worthy  wife  left  the  wagon-train,"  rejoined  Stanhope.  "  He 
has  never  been  Krutzer  since.  As  for  proof,  we  shall  not  lack 
that;  but  I  think  the  old  villain,  if  he  lives  to  come  to  trial, 

29. 


460  DANGEEODS  GROUND. 

I  <  / 

will  plead  guilty.     His  wife  possesses  all  the  courage;  he  is 

cunning  enough,  but  cowardly.  He  will  not  be  allowed  to 
see  or  consult  with  her ;  and  free  from  her  influence,  he  can 
,be  made  to  confess.  Besides,  the  old  woman  has  been  wear- 
ing about  her  person  a  belt,  which,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  is 
the  one  stolen  from  the  body  of  Arthur  Pearson.  It  is  of 
peculiar  workmanship,  and  evidently  very  old.  It  contains 
papers  and  money." 

"  If  it  is  Pearson's  belt,"  interposed  Walter  Parks,  "  I  can 
identify  it,  and  so  could  some  others  of  the  party  if — " 

"Was  a  certain  Joe  Blakesley  a  member  of  your  band?" 
asked  the  Chief  quickly. 

"Yes." 

"And  could  he  identify  this  belt?* 

"He  could." 

"Then  Vernet  has  done  something;  he  has  found  this 
Blakesley." 

"  Where?"  asked  the  Englishman,  eagerly. 

"In  California." 

"Good!"  cried  Stanhope;  "Van  shall  have  the  full  benefit 
of  his  discovery." 

And  in  the  final  summing-up,  he  did  have  the  benefit,  not 
only  of  this,  his  one  useful  exploit,  but  of  all  Stanhope's  mag- 
nanimity. Through  his  intercession,  Vernet  was  retained  in 
the  service  he  had  abused ;  but  he  was  never  again  admitted 
to  the  full  confidence  of  his  Chief,  nor  trusted  with  unlimited 
power,  as  of  old.  The  question  of  supremacy  was  decided , 
and  to  all  who  knew  the  true  inwardness  of  their  drawn  battle 
Richard  Stanhope  was  "  the  Star  of  the  force." 

In  regard  to  Papa  Francoise,  as  we  will  stiU  call  him,  Stan- 
hope had  judged  aright. 


A1TD  "LAST.  451 

He  was  possessed  of  wondrous  cunning,  and  all  his  instincts 
were  evil,  but  he  lacked  the  one  element  that,  sometimes,  makes 
a  successful  villain :  he  was  an  utter  coward.  Deprived  of 
the  stimulus  of  the  old  woman's  fierce  temper  and  piercing 
tongue,  he  cowered  in  his  cell,  and  fell  an  easy  victim  to  his 
inquisitors.  He  was  wild  with  terror  when  confronted  by  the 
girl  Nance,  risen,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  from  the  grave  to  de- 
nounce him.  And  when,  after  Nance  had  withdrawn,  he 
faced  Stanhope  and  his  Chief,  Walter  Parks  and  John  Ains- 
worth,  he  was  as  wax  in  their  hands. 

Up  to  that  moment  the  name  of  Arthur  Pearson,  and  that 
long-ago  tragedy  of  the  prairies,  had  not  been  mentioned,  and 
Papa  believed  that  the  killing  of  Siebel,  with,  perhaps,  the 
stealing  of  little  Daisy,  were,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law,  his  only 
crimes.  But  when  Walter  Parks  stood  forth  and  pierced  him 
through  and  through  with  his  searching  eyes,  Papa  recognized 
him  at  once,  and  fairly  shrieked  with  fear. 

And  when  he  learned  from  Richard  Stanhope,  how  Franz 
Francoise  met  his  death,  and  that  it  was  his  son's  dying  words 
which  condemned  him,  he  threw  himself  before  his  accusers  in 
a  paroxysm  of  abject  terror,  and  confessed  himself  the  mur- 
derer they  already  knew  him  to  be. 

But  Mamma  was  made  of  other  timber.  When  consigned 
to  her  cell,  she  was  silent  and  sullen  until,  in  compliance  with 
Stanhope's  instructions,  they  attempted  to  take  from  her  the 
belt  she  wore.  Then  her  rage  was  terrible,  and  her  resistance 
damaging  to  the  countenances  and  garments  of  those  who 
sought  to  control  her. 

She  received  Richard  Stanhope  with  such  a  burst  of  fury, 
that  restraint  became  necessary ;  and  even  when  she  sat  bound 
and  helpless  before  her  accusers^  her  struggles  were  furious, 


452  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

and  her  imprecations,  shrieked  out  between  frothing  lips,  were 
horrible  to  hear. 

"When  she  saw  Walter  Parks,  she  seemed  to  guess  why  he 
was  there.  And  when  she  knew  all :  that  Franz  Francoise 
was  surely  dead,  and  how  he  died  ;  that  Papa  had  confessed 
everything;  that  John  Ainsworth had  come  back  to  claim  his 
daughter,  and  lavish  upon  her  his  love  and  fortune — her 
ravings  broke  out  afresh.  She  was  frightful  to  see,  and  dan- 
gerous to  all  who  ventured  to  approach.  So  they  treated  her 
as  a  mad  woman,  and  for  many  days  Mamma  hurled  unheard 
imprecations  at  her  cowardly  spouse,  and  cursed  Richard  Stan- 
hope, arrayed  in  a  strait-jacket. 

But  she  was  non-committal,  baffling,  from  first  to  last.  She 
would  admit  nothing,  explain  nothing,  confess  nothing.  She 
defied  them  all. 

On  the  following  morning,  at  the  Warburton  Mansion,  a 
happy  group  assembled  to  hear,  from  Mr.  Follingsbee,  all 
that  was  not  already  known  to  them  of  Stanhope's  story. 

How  it  was  told,  let  the  reader,  who  knows  all,  and  knows 
Mr.  Follingsbee,  imagine. 

Leslie  was  there,  fair  and  pale,  robed  once  more  in  the  soft, 
rich  garments  that  so  well  became  her.  Alan  was  there,  hand- 
some and  humble.  He  had  made,  so  far  as  he  could  in  words, 
manly  amends  to  Leslie,  and  she  had  forgiven  him  freely  at 
last.  Winnie  too,  was  there,  obstinately  avoiding  Alan's 
glance,  and  keeping  close  to  Leslie.  Mrs.  French  was  there, 
smiling  and  motherly.  And  little  Daisy  was  there,  the  centre 
of  their  loving  glances. 

In  her  childish  way,  the  little  one  had  told  all  that  she 
could  of  her  captivity. 


AJSD  LAST.  463 

She  had  gone  to  sleep  upon  the  balcony  of  her  Papa's  house 
and  in  the  arms  of  "  Mother  Goose."  She  had  awakened  in  a 
big,  dark  room,  whose  windows  were  tightly  shuttered,  and 
where  she  could  see  nothing  but  a  tiny  bit  of  sky.  A  negress, 
who  frightened  her  very  much,  had  brought  her  food,  and 
sat  in  the  room  sometimes.  She  had  been  lonely,  terrified, 
desolate. 

The  little  that  she  could  tell  threw  no  light  upon  the  mystery 
of  her  hiding-place,  but  it  was  all  that  they  ever  knew. 

"I  used  to  pray  and  pray,"  said  Daisy,  "but  God  didn't 
seem  to  hear  me  at  all.  And  when  I  woke  in  that  little  room 
that  smelled  so  bad — it  was  worse  than  the  other — I  just  felt 
I  must  make  God  hear,  so  I  prayed,  oh,  so  -loud,  and  then  the 
door  broke  in,  and  that  nice,  funny  man  picked  me  up,  and 
there  was  Mamma ;  and  only  think!  God  might  have  let  me 
out  long  before  if  I  had  only  prayed  loud  enough." 

When  Leslie  learned  her  own  story,  and  was  brought  face 
to  face  with  her  father,  her  cup  of  joy  was  full  indeed.  She 
was  at  anchor  at  last,  with  some  one  to  love  her  beyond  all 
others;  with  some  one  to  love  and  to  render  happy. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "to  know  that  my  dear  adopted  parents 
were  after  all  my  own  kindred;  my  uncle  and  my  aunt! 
What  caprice  of  their  evil  natures  prompted  those  wretches  to 
do  me  this  one  kindness?" 

"  They  knew  where  to  find  the  Ulimans,"  said  her  father, 
"  and  knew  that  they  were  wealthy.  It  was  the  easiest  way 
to  dispose  of  you." 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  assented,  sighing  as  she  thought  of  those 
dear  ones  dead;  smiling  again  as  she  looked  in  the  face  of  her 
new-found  father. 

En  the  present  confidence,  the  happiness  and  peace,  that 


454  DANGEROUS  GROUND, 

surrounded  her,  Winnie  French  could  not  continue  her  per- 
verse role,  nor,  indeed,  was  Alan  the  man  to  permit  it.  She 
had  let  him  see  into  her  heart,  in  that  moment  when  he  had 
seemed  in  such  deadly  peril,  and  he  smiled  down  her  pretty 
after-defiance. 

"  You  shall  not  recant,"  he  said  laughingly ;  "  for  your  own 
sake,  I  dare  not  allow  it.  A  young  woman  who  so  rashly  es- 
pouses the  cause  of  a  swain,  simply  because  he  has  the  prospect 
of  a  pair  of  handcuffs  staring  him  in  the  face,  is  unreliable, 
sadly  out  of  balance.  She  needs  a  guardian  and  I — " 

"Need  an  occupation,"  retorted  Winnie,  maliciously. 
"Don't  doom  yourself  to  gray  hairs,  sir;  repent." 

"  It's  too  late,"  he  declared ;  and  they  ceased  to  argue  the 
question. 

They  would  have  feted  Stanhope  and  made  much  of  him  at 
Warburtou  place,  for  Alan  did  not  hesitate  to  pronounce  such 
a  man  the  peer  of  any.  But  the  young  detective  was  per- 
versely shy. 

He  came  one  day,  and  received  Leslie's  thanks  and  praises, 
blushing  furiously  the  while,  and  conducting  himself  in  any- 
thing but  a  courageous  manner.  Once  he  accepted  Alan's  in- 
vitation to  a  dinner,  in  which  the  Follingsbees,  Mr.  Parks  and 
Mr.  Ainsworth  participated.  But  lie  took  no  further  advan- 
tages of  their  cordially-extended  hospitality,  and  he  went 
about  his  duties,  not  quite  the  same  Dick  Stanhope  as  of  yore. 

On  her  part,  Leslie  was  very  reticent  when  Stanhope  and 
his  exploits  were  the  subject  of  discussion,  although,  when  she 
spoke  of  him,  it  was  always  as  the  best  and  bravest  of 
men. 

"  Paries  talks  of  returning  to  England/'  said  her  father  one 


AND  LAST.  455 

day  at  luncheon,  "and  he  wants  Stanhope  to  go  with 
him." 

"  Will  he  go  ?"  asked  Alan,  in  a  tone  of  interest. 

"I  hope  not;  at  least  not  until  I  have  time  to  bring  him  to 
his  senses/' 

"Why,  Papa!"  ejaculates  Leslie. 

"Has  our  Mr.  Stanhope  lost  his  senses,  uncle?"  queries 
little  Daisy  anxiously. 

"  You  shall  judge,  my  dear.  He  has  refused,  with  unyield- 
ing firmness,  to  accept  from  me  anything  in  token  of  my  grati- 
tude for  the  magnificent  service  he  has  rendered  us." 

"  And,"  added  Alan,  "  he  has  refused  my  overtures  with 
equal  stubbornness." 

"But  he  has  accepted  the  splendid  reward  promise  by  Mr. 
Parks,  has  he  not?"  queries  Mrs.  French. 

"That,  of  course;  he  was  bound  to  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Ains- 
worth,  discontentedly.  "And  in  some  way  I  must  make  him 
accept  something  from  me.  Leslie,  my  dear,  can't  you  manage 
him  ?" 

"I  fear  not,  Papa."  And  Leslie  blushed  as  she  caught 
Winnie's  laughing  eye  fixed  upon  her.  "I  don't  think  Mr. 
Stanhope  is  a  man  to  be  managed." 

"Nonsense,  Leslie,"  cries  Winnie.  "He's  afraid  of  a 
woman;  he  blushes  when  you  speak  to  him." 

"Did  he  blush,"  queried  Leslie  maliciously,  "when  you 
embraced  him  that  night  of  the  masquerade?" 

In  the  midst  of  their  laughter,  Winnie  was  mute. 

One  day,  some  weeks  after  the  denouement,  Stanhope, 
sauntering  down  a  quiet  street,  met  Van  "Vernet. 

"Stop,  Van,"  he  said,  as  the  other  was  about  to  pass;  "don't 


456  DANGEKOUS  GROUND. 

go  by  me  in  this  unfriendly  fashion,  if  only  for  appearance's 
sake.  How  do  you  get  on  ?" 

"As  usual/'  replied  Vernet  indifferently,  and  looking  Stan- 
hope steadily  in  the  face.  "And  you  ?  somehow  you  look  too 
sober  for  a  man  who  holds  all  the  winning-cards." 

"I  don't  hold  all  the  winning-cards,  Van.  Indeed,  I'm 
inclined  to  think  that  I've  lost  more  than  I've  won." 

Vernet  continued  to  regard  him  steadily  and  after  a  moment 
of  silence,  he  said  quietly : 

"  Look  here,  Dick,  I'm  not  prepared  to  say  that  I  quite 
forgive  you  for  outwitting  me — I  don't  forgive  myself  for  be- 
ing beaten — but  one  good  turn  deserves  another,  and  you  did 
me  a  very  good  turn  at  the  end.  Youv'e  won  a  great  game, 
but  I'm  afraid  you  are  going  to  close  it  with  a  blunder." 

"A  blunder,  Van?" 

"Yes,  a  blunder.  You  have  devoted  yourself,  heart  and 
soul,  to  a  pretty  woman,  and  you  are  just  the  man  to  fall  in 
love  with  her," 

"Take  care,  Van." 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  I  am  saying.  On  the  day  of  our  meet- 
ing at  Warburton  place — the  last  meeting,  I  mean,  when  you 
figured  as  Franz  Francoise — I  saw  what  you  missed.  You 
may  think  that  I  was  hardly  in  a  state  of  mind  for  taking  ob- 
servations, but,  in  truth,  my  senses  were  never  more  intensely 
alert  than  while  I  stood  there  dumbly  realizing  the  overthrow 
of  all  my  plans.  And  I  saw  love,  unmistakable  love,  shining 
upon  you  from  a  woman's  eyes." 

"Van,  you  are  mad  !" 

"  Not  at  all.  It's  a  natural  termination  to  such  an  affair. 
Why,  man,  you  are  deservedly  a  hero  in  her  eyes.  Don't  be 
overmodest,  Dick.  If  you  care  for  this  woman,  you  can  winner." 


AND  LAST.  467 

He  turned  with  these  words,  passed  his  amazed  listener,  and 
walked  on.  And  Stanhope  resumed  his  saunter,  looking  like 
a  man  in  a  dream. 

That  evening  he  made  his  first  voluntary  call  at  Warburton 
place. 

Alan  and  Winnie,  two  months  later,  were  married,  and 
Stanhope  was  among  the  wedding-guests. 

"  Warburton  place  will  have  a  new  mistress,  Mr.  Stan- 
hope/' Leslie  said  to  him.  "  I  am  going  to  abdicate  in  Win- 
nie's favor. 

"Entirely,  Mrs.  Warburton?" 

"Entirely;  I  have  fought  it  out,  and  I  have  conquered, 
after  a  hard  struggle.  Alan  and  Winnie,  when  they  return, 
will  reign  here.  Papa  and  I  are  already  preparing  our  new 
home.  We  shall  not  be  far  away,  and  we  will  divide  Daisy 
between  us." 

Later  in  the  evening,  Mrs.  Follingsbee  captured  him  and 
inquired : 

"  Have  you  heard  Leslie's  last  bit  of  Quixotism  ?" 

"Xo,  madam." 

"  She  has  made  this  house  over  to  Winnie  as  a  bridal  gift. 
And  every  dollar  of  her  husband's  legacy  she  has  set  aside  for 
Daisy  Warburton." 

"I'm  glad  of  it,"  Blurted  out  Stanhope ;  and  then  he  colored 
hotly  and  bit  his  lips. 

When  Alan  and  his  fair  little  bride  were  installed  as  master 
and  mistress  of  Warburton  place,  Leslie  and  her  father  re- 
ceived their  friends  in  a  new  home.  It  was  not  so  large  as  the 
mansion  Leslie  had  "abdicated;"  not  so  grand  and  stately;  bui 

it  was  elegant,  dainty,  homelike. 

*20 


458  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

"  It  suits  me  better,"  said  Leslie  to  Stanhope.  "  The  other 
was  too  grand.  Winnie  can  throw  upon  her  mother  the 
burden  of  its  stateliness,  and  Mrs.  French  will  make  a  charm- 
ing dowager.  I  am  going  to  leave  my  past  behind  in  the  old 
home ;  and  begin  a  new  life  in  this." 

"Are  you  going  to  leave  me  behind,  with  the  rest  of  your 
past?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  said  smilingly,  "you  have  not  lost  your  value; 
and  if  I  should  turn  you  out,  fresh  troubles  would  arise.  I 
should  have  to  contend  with  Daisy,  and  Papa  too." 

And  indeed  Daisy  had  given  him  a  prominent  place  in  her 
affections.' 

"  Some  of  my  frends,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  are  advising 
me  to  abandon  the  Agency,  and  embark  in  some  quieter  enter- 
prise." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  they  wish  you  to  give  up  your  pro- 
fession? to  cease  to  be  a  detective?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  what  did  you  answer?" 

"I  am  seeking  advice;  give  it  me." 

"Any  man  may  be  a  tradesman,"  she  said  slowly.  "Nine 
tenths  of  mankind  can  be  or  are  doctors,  lawyers,  clergymen. 
The  men  who  possess  the  skill,  the  sagacity,  and  the  courage 
to  do  what  you  have  done,  what  you  can  do  again,  are  very 
few.  To  restore  lost  little  ones;  to  reunite  families;  to  bring 
criminals  to  justice,  and  to  defeat  injustice, — what  occupation 
can  be  nobler !  If  I  were  such  a  detective  as  you,  I  would 
never  cease  to  exercise  my  best  gifts." 

"  I  never  will,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  in  his. 

Months  passed  on;  winter  went  and  summer  came.     Walter 


401 


'A.  m:m  of  your  calling  should  have  guessed  that  long  ago!— page 

459 


460  1) A \GEKOt  s  GROUND. 

Parks  lingered  iii  America,  his  society  dearly  valued  by  John 
Ainsworth  and  Mr.  Folliugsbee,  his  presence  always  a  wel- 
come one  in  Leslie's  dainty  parlors,  and  at  Warburton  place. 
Winnie,  who  had  been  a  saucy  sweetheart  and  piquant  bride, 
had  become  a  sweetly  winsome  wife.  John  A  ins  worth  was 
renewing  his  youth;  and  Leslie,  having  passed  the  period  of  her 
widowhood,  once  more  opened  her  doors  to  society. 

Richard  Stanhope  had  become  a  frequent  and  welcome  guest 
at  Leslie's  home,  and  all  his  visits  little  Daisy  appropriated  at 
once  to  herself.  Indeed  she  and  Stanhope  stood  upon  a  won- 
drously  confidential  footing. 

"Next  month  comes  Mamma's  birthday,"  said  Daisy  to  him 
one  day,  when  she  sat  upon  his  knee  in  Leslie's  pretty  flower- 
decked  room.  "  We're  going  to  have  a  festival,  and  give  her 
lots  of  presents.  Are  you  going  to  give  her  a  present,  Mr. 
Stanhope?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  looking  over  at  Leslie;  "your 
Mamma  is  such  a  very  particular  lady,  Daisy,  that  she  might 
be  too  proud  to  accept  my  offering." 

"Why,"  cried  the  child,  "that's  just  what  Uncle  Ainsworth 
says  about  you  :  that  you  are  too  proud  to  take  a  gift  from 
him,  and  it  vexes  him,  too." 

"  Daisy,  Daisy !"  cried  Leslie,  holding  up  a  warning  finger. 

"Your  uncle  is  a  very  unreasonable  man,  Daisy,"  laughed 
Stanhope.  "Xow  tell  me,  do  you  think  I  had  better  offer 
your  Mamma  a  birthday  present?" 

"Why" — and  Daisy  opened  wide  her  blue  eyes — "Uncle 
Alan  says  that  everybody  who  loves  Mamma  will  remember 
her  birthday.  Don't  you  love  my  Mamma?" 

"Yes,"  said  Stanhope  slowly,  and  fixing  his  eyes  upon  Les- 
lie's face,  "  I  love  her  very  much." 


AND  LAST.  461 

Leslie's  cheeks  were  suffused  with  blushes,  and  she  sat  quite 
silent,  with  downcast  eyes. 

"Daisy,"  said  Stanhope,  putting  the  child  down  quickly, 
"go  to  your  uncle  Ainsworth,  and  tell  him  that  I  have  changed 
my  mind;  that  I  want  the  best  part  of  his  fortune.  Run, 
dear." 

And  as  the  child  flew  from  the  room,  he  rose  and  stood  be- 
fore Leslie. 

"  If  your  father  yields  to  my  demand,"  he  said  softly,  "  what 
will  be  your  verdict?" 

A  moment  of  stillness.  Then  she  lifts  her  brown  eyes  to 
his,  a  smile  breaking  through  her  blushes. 

"  A  man  of  your  calling,"  she  said,  "should  have  guessed 
that  long  ago!" 

Papa  Francoise  never  came  to  trial.  His  terror  overcame 
his  reason,  and  in  his  insanity  he  did  what  he  never  would 
have  found  the  courage  to  do  had  he  retained  his  senses.  He 
hanged  himself  in  his  prison  cell. 

But  Mamma  lived  on.  Through  her  trial  she  raved  and 
cursed ;  and  she  went  to  a  life-long  imprisonment  raving  and 
cursing  still.  Her  viciousness  increased  with  her  length  of 
days.  She  was  the  black  sheep  of  the  prison.  Nothing  could 
break  her  temper,  or  curb  her  tongue.  She  was  feared  and 
hated  even  there.  Hard  labor,  solitary  confinement,  severe 
punishment,  all  failed,  and  she  was  at  last  confined  in  a  solitary 
cell,  to  rave  out  her  life  there  and  fret  the  walls  with  her  im- 
potent rage. 

Millie,  the  faithful  incompetent,  remained  in  Leslie's  service 
until  she  went  to  a  home  of  her  own,  bestowed  upon  her  by  a 
good-looking  and  industrious  young  mechanic. 


462  DANGEROUS  GROUND. 

Nance,  the  one-time  drunkard,  became  the  object  of  Leslie's 
pitying  care,  and  did  not  relapse  into  her  former  poverty  and 
evil  habits. 

The  Follingsbees,  the  Warburtons — all  these  who  had  been 
drawn  together  by  trials  and  afflictions — remained  an  un- 
broken coterie  of  friends,  who  never  ceased  to  chant  Stanhope's 
praises. 

And  little  Daisy  passed  the  years  of  her  childhood  in  the 
firm  belief  that, 

"  God  will  do  anything  you  want  him  to,  if  you  only  pray 
loud  enough." 

THE  END. 


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possession  of  Mexicans  and  Indians. 

These  most  fascinating  Tales  of  Adventure  on  Sea  and  Land  are  for 
•ale  on  all  Railroad  Trains,  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be  sent  postpaid 
•n  receipt  of  price  by  The  Publishers. 

ALEX.   T.    LOYD    A   CO., 

CHICAGO. 


Madeline  Payne 

THE    EXPERT'S    DAUGHTER. 

By  :ti-A.^7CTt.:Es:i\roE    Xj.    HiTTKToae^ 

Author  of  "Shadowed  by  Three.'!    "Out  of  a  Labyrinth,"  etc.,  etc. 
Illustrated  with  45  Original  Engravings. 


CONTENTS.—  The  Ljvers'  Meeting.  The  Serpent  in  Eden.  A  SudCr  \ 
Departure.  What  the  Old  Tree  Revealed.  Two  Heartless  Plotters.  XI.  J 
Story  of  a  Mother's  Wrongs  and  a  Husband's  Crimes.  Turns  her  Back  o  i 
the  Old  Home,  and  Trusts  the  Future  and  Lucian  Davlin.  Nurse  Hagar  r 
"Out  of  Sorts."  Madeline  Defies  her  Enemies.  "  You  are  Tier  Murderer  .' 
The  Railway  Station  at  Night.  A  Disappointed  Schemer  Rejoiced.  Mad- 
eline's Flight.  The  Night  Journey  to  New  York.  A  Friendly  Waining 
Unheeded.  "  Take  it;  in  the  Name  of  your  Mother  1  ask  it!"  Alone  in  the 
Great  City.  A  Shrewd  Scheme.  An  Ever-Prese7H  Face.  Olive  Gerard'* 
Warning.  The  Cruel  Awakening.  The  Bird  in  a  Golden  Cage.  The  Luxu- 
rious Apartments  of  Lucian  Davlin,  the  Man  of  Luck.  A  Dissatisfied  Serv- 
ant. The  Man  of  Luck  Defied.  A  Well-  Aimed  Pistol  Sliot.  ••  Little  Demon, 
I  will  kill  you  before  I  will  lose  you  now  !"  Doctor  Vaughn  Summoned. 
A  Charming  Widow  at  Bellair.  "The  Danger  is  Past!"  Gone!  "  When 
Next  we  Meet.  I  Shall  Have  Other  Weapons  !"  Bonnie.  Bewitching  Claire. 
A  Tell-tale  Photograph.  "Cruel,  Crafty,  Treacherous."  Madeline  and 
Olive  in  Conference.  "Kitty,  the  Dancer,  will  Die!"  The  Story  of  an  Old 
Crime  Retold.  "Percy!  Percy!  Percy!"  A  Message  from  the  Dead.  "May 
God's  Curse  fall  on  all  who  Drove  her  to  her  Doom!"  Miss  Arthur's  French 
Maid.  Cora  Growing  Weary  of  Dissembling.  Celine  Leroque  Overhears 
an  Important  Conversation.  Mr.  Percy  startled.  Cora  Shares  this  Feeling. 
Percy  Turns  the  Tables.  "And  yet  you  sue  on  the  Earth!"  Celine  Manages 
to  Play  the  Spy  to  some  Purpose.  Cora  and  Celine  Measure  Swords.  Cora's 
Cunning  Plot.  "Celine  looked  Cautiously  about  her."  An  Intercepted  Tel- 
egram. Face  to  Face.  A  Midnight  Appointment.  "I  am  Afraid  for  you; 
but  give  It  up  now?  never!"  An  Irate  Spinster.  Celine's  Highly  Probable 
Story.  Gathering  Clues.  A  Hurried  Visit.  The  Hand  of  Friendship 
Wields  the  Surgeon's  Knife.  Claire  Keith  Placed  Face  to  Fa.ce  with 
Trouble.  A  Dual  Renunciation.  An  Astonishing  Disclosure.  "I  am  not 
Worthy  of  him,  and  she  is!"  Struggling  Against  Fate.  "Ah,  how  Dared  I 
think  to  Become  one  of  you?"  A  Fiery  Fair  Champion.  Hagar  and  Cora 
have  a  Meeting.  Cora  gets  a  Glimmer  of  a  False  Light.  "  To  be,  to  do,  to 
Suffer."  A  Troubled  Spinster.  An  Aggravating  French  Maid.  "Won't 
there  be  a  Row  in  the  Castle!"  Setting  some  Snares.  Cora  and  Celine  form 
an  Alliance.  A  Veritable  Ghost  Awakens  Consternation  in  the  Household. 
"If  ever  you  want  to  make  him  feel  what  It  is  to  Suffer,  Hagar  will  help 
you!"  Doctor  Vaughn  Visits  Bellair.  Not  a  Bad  Day's  Work.  Henry  Re- 
veals his  Master's  Secrets.  Claire  Turns  Circe.  A  Mysterious  Tenant 
Celine  Hurries  Matters  a  Trifle.  The  Curtain  Rises  on  the  Mimic  Stage. 
Celine  Discharged  by  the  Spinster,  takes  Service  with  Cora.  The  Sudden 
Illness.  The  Learned  "Doctor  from  Europe."  "I  am  Sorry,  very  Sorry." 
The  Plot  Thickens.  A  Midnight  Conflagration.  The  Mysterious  House  in 
Flames,  and  its  Mysterious  Tenant  takes  Refuge  with  Claire.  The  Story  of 
a  Wrecked  Life.  "  Well,  it  is  a  Strange  Business,  and  a  Difficult."  Letters 
from  the  Seat  of  War.  Mr.  Percy  Shakes  Himself.  A  Fair  Invalid.  "Two 
Handsomer  Scoundrels  Never  Stood  at  Bav!"  A  Silken  Belt  W  ortl.  a  King's 
Ransom.  A  Successful  Burglary.  Cross  Purposes.  A  Slight  Complication. 
A  n«w  Detective  on  the  Scene.  Clarence  Vaughn  seeks  to  Cultivate  him. 
Bidding  High  for  First-Class  Detective  Service.  "Thou  shall  not  Serve 
two  Masters  "  set  at  naught.  Mr.  Lord's  Letter.  Premonitions  of  a  Storm. 
"The—  fellow  is  Dead!"  A  Thunderbolt.  "I  have  come  back  to  my  own!" 
A  Fair,  but  Strong,  Hand.  Cora  Restive  under  Orders.  "You  —  you 
are  -  ?"  "Celine  Leroque,  Madam."  A  Madman.  A  Bogus  Doctor  Un- 
comfortable. "Don't  you  try  that,  sir!"  Lucian  Davlin's  "Points"  are 
False  Beacons.  Cora's  Humiliation.  An  Arrival  of  Sharp-Eyed  Well- 
Borers.  Rather  Strange  Maid  Servants.  The  Cords  are  Tightening  and  the 
Victims  Writhe.  A  Veritable  Sphynx.  Sleeping  with  Eyes  Open.  A  Sav- 
age Toothache.  A  Judicious  Use  of  Chloroform.  A  Bold  Break  for  Free- 
dom. An  Omnipresent  Well-Borer.  "No  .Nonsense,  Mind;  I'm  not  a  Flat." 
"For  God's  sake,  what  are  you?"  "A  Witch!"  The  Doctor's  Wooing. 
Mrs.  Ralston  Overheads  Something.  A  Fresh  Complication.  '  He  is  verv 
Handsome;  so  are  Tigers!"  An  Astounding  Revelation.  Mrs.  Ralston's 
Story.  "No."  gasped  Olive,  "I—  I—."  A  Movement  In  Force.  C9ra  stirs 
up  the  Animals.  A  Wedd;ng  Indefinitely  Postponed  for  Cause.  Nipped  In 
the  Bud.  Ready  for  Action.  "Be  at  the  Cottage  to-night."  A  Plea  for  for- 
giveness. Sharpening  the  Sword  of  Fate.  The  Weight  of  a  Woman's 
Hand.  "Officers.take  him;  he  has  been  my  Prisoner  long  enough!"  "Man. 
you  have  been  a  Dupe,  a  Fool  !"  Cora's  Confession.  "The  Pistol  Is  Alined 
at  Madeline's  Heart  !"  "It  is  a  Death  Wound  !"  "The  Goddess  you  Wor- 
ship has  Deserted  you!"  The  Death  -bed  of  a  Hypocrite.  "And  then  comes 
The  World  Is  Clothed  in  a  New  White  Garment. 
"God's  greatness  shines  around  our  incompleteness, 
Rouud  our  restlessness  His  rest  1" 


i  SLAYER'S  1DYEMWES 

ON  SEA  AND   LAND. 


We  saw  many  species  of  wild  animals."    Page  89. 


By  WM.    H.   THOMES, 

Author  of  "  THK  GOI,D  HUNTERS'  ADVENTUBES  IN  AUSTRALIA,"  "  THB 

BLOCKADE,"    etC.,etO. 


ILLUSTRATED     WITH     FORTY    ELEGANT     ENGRAVINGS. 


•OLD  ON  ALL  BAIL  WAY  TRAINS  AND  BY  ALL  BOOKSELLERS. 


|[f  Ttttf  BUSHRANGERS. 

as  I  turned,  I  managed  to  keep  my  eyes  on  the  shelf  over- 
head, so  that  I  could  note  all  the  movements  that  took  place. 
I  was  repaid  for  my  trouble,  for.  as  I  fell  back  and  pressed 
my  hand  on  my  side,  as  though  fatally  wounded,  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  hearing  a  triumphant  laugh  issue  from  the 
thicket  overhead ;  and  the  next  instant  the  repulsive  features 
of  Moloch  were  thrust  through  the  branches  of  the  trees, 
and  he  seemed  to  enjoy  the  appearance  which  I  presented. 

"  Bah !  you  fools  !  "  cried  the  rascal,  in  a  mocking  tone, 
"  do  yer  think  that  yer  can  take  me  ?  I  vos  too  quick  for 
yer.  Had  yer  come  an  hour  sooner,  yer  might  have  caught 
me  nappin'.  But  now  I  jist  spits  at  yer.  Ah,  fools,  I  has 
the  voman,  and  I  means  to  keep  her." 

I  seldom  miss  with  a  revolver,  especially  when  the  object 
at  which  I  aim  is  within  reasonable  distance ;  but  I  must 
Confess  that  I  was  nervous  and  full  of  revengeful  feelings,  or 
.perhaps  I  was  too  hasty  ;  for  I  suddenly  raised  my  pistol  and 
arejr  at  the  fiend  who  was  grinning  at  me  from  amid  the 
nr--*  tes  of  the  balsam  trees.  I  missed  the  scoundrel, .and 
yet  I  Tfould  have  given  a  thousand  dollars  to  have  sent  a 
bullet  crushing  through  his  brain,  and  killed  him  on  the  spot. 

"  Ho,  ho  !  yer  didn't  come  it,"  laughed  the  fiend.  "  Vait 
a  minute  and  I'll  make  yer  see  somethin'  that'll  open  yer  eyes." 

He  disappeared,  and  while  he  was  gone  I  changed  posi- 
tion, so  that  he  could  not  single  me  out  for  another  shot,  in 
case  he  desired  to  test  his  old  horse-pistols. 

**  You  ain't  hit,  is  you  ?  "  whispered  Hackett  and  Hopeful 
in  anxicrMs  tones. 

•*  No,"  I  answered. 

Jefof  e  they  could  congratulate  me,  Moloch,  the  devil,  ap- 
|«,  red,  bearing  in  his  arms  the  almost  lifeless  form  of  poor, 
de  r  Amelia  Copey,  whose  dress  was  torn  and  soiled,  and 
£?,  »se  hair  was  hanging  down  in  tangled  masses,  neglected 
and  u', cared  for. 

"  I-«»ok ! "  yelled  the  fiend,  in  a  triumphant  tone ;  "  'ere's 
the  g^4  vot  I  loves,  and  she  vill  love  me  afore  long,  or  I'll 
know  Ahe  reason  vy." 

A*  Se  spoke  he  held  the  fair  form  in  such  a  mannor  that 


THE    BUSHRANGERS. 

A  Yankee's  Adventures  During  His  Second   Visit  to  Australia. 

BY    WM.    H.    THOMES, 

Auth»r  »f  *Tht  Gold  Hunter*  in  Australia."   "TAe  HusAranfftrs,''  "Running  th* 
Blackout, "  «t€..  etc. 


llolocli  appeared,  bearing  to*  aluiost  lifeless  form.    "Look,"  yelled  the  fiend,  I»» 


804  UPS  IH  AUSTRALIA,  OB 

•ides  would  be  equally  well  guarded,  then  glanced  orer  the  ercltefi 
crowd,  in  hopes  that  Dan  would  array  himself  on  our  side  —  but  that 
enterprising  gentleman  had  suddenly  disappeared,  and  left  us  to  out 
fate. 

0  Stand  back,"  shouted  the  inspector ;  "  it  will  be  the  worse  for  you. 
There's  many  of  you  present  who  know  me,  and  know  that  I  have  a 
large  force  of  policemen  on  hand.    If  you  strike  a  blow,  not  one  of  you 
shall  escape  justice. 

"  Unbar  the  door  as  quickly  as  possible,"  whispered  the  inspector, 
after  getting  through  with  his  threatening  speech. 

1  lifted  the  heavy  gum  wood  bar  from  its  place,  and  then  raised  the 
latch,  expecting  that  it  would  yield,  but  to  my  surprise  it  did  not  —  it 
was  locked,  and  the  key  in  the  pocket  of  the  doorkeeper^  who  had  made 
his  escape  from  the  room  in  company  with  Dan. 

I  almost  uttered  a  groan  of  agony  when  I  made  the  discovery,  and  to 
add  to  the  perplexity  of  our  situation,  the  ruffians  must  have  understood 
our  case,  and  known  that  the  key  was  never  left  in  the  lock,  for  they 
uttered  a  discordant  and  ironical  hoot,  and  then  a  shout  of  sardonic 
laughter. 

M  For  Heaven's  sake,  don't  be  all  night  in  getting  that  door  open," 
cried  Fred,  nervously,  and  I  will  confess  that  I  also  partook  of  the  same 
complaint. 

"Now  for  a  rush  —  cut  them  to  pieces,"  exclaimed  many  voices ;  but 
I  observed  that  the  cries  came  from  those  who  were  farthest  from  us, 
and  out  of  the  reach  of  our  pistols,  which  we  were  forced  to  display,  in 
hope  of  keeping  the  robbers  at  a  respectful  distance. 

"  Is  the  door  unbarred  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Brown,  turning  half  round,  and 
exposing  his  side  to  the  knives  of  the  crowd,  and  quick  as  thought,  a 
man  sprang  forward  to  begin  the  work  of  bloodshed ;  but  sudden  as 
were  his  movements,  they  were  anticipated,  for  I  raised  the  heavy  bar, 
which  I  had  not  relinquished,  and  let  it  fall  upon  his  head  with  crushing 
force. 

The  poor  devil  fell  at  our  feet  without  uttering  a  groan,  although 
many  spasmodic  twitchings  of  his  nerves  showed  that  he  was  not  killed 
outright.  His  long  knife  narrowly  missed  the  side  of  the  inspector,  and 
for  the  first  attempt  at  our  annihilation,  it  was  not  to  be  despised. 

The  wretches  uttered  yells  of  rage  when  they  saw  their  comrade  fall, 
but  none  seemed  inclined  to  assume  the  leadership  and  begin  the  attack 
in  earnest 

Not  one  of  their  motions  escaped  us,  and  as  long  as  they  were  dis- 
posed to  brandish  their  knives  at  a  distance,  we  did  not  choose  to  carry 
matters  to  extremities ;  but  change  of  tactics  was  suddenly  resorted  to 
on  the  part  of  our  opponents,  that  placed  us  in  no  little  peril. 

All  the  tumblers,  bottles,  and  decanters  of  the  bar  were  taken  posses- 
lion  of  by  the  savage  scoundrels,  and  the  first  intimation  that  we  had 
of  the  fact  was  the  crushing  of  a  bottle  (empty,  <  f  coursu —  they  were 
not  the  sort  of  men  to  throw  away  liquor  of  any  kind)  against  the  doo" 
just  above  our  heads. 

The  fragments  were  showered  upon  our  faces  and  shoulders, 
before  we  had  time  to  consider  on  the  matter  another  uottle  flew  ] 
my  head,  and  hit  our  prisoner  upon  one  of  his  shoulders,  inju- 


THE  COLD  HUNTERS'  ADVENTUB£ 


OR,    WILD    LIFE    IN    AUSTRALIA. 


By  WM.  H.  THOMES.  author  of  "The  Bushrangers,"  "The   Gold   Hunters  in 
"A  Whaleman's  Adventures,"  "Life  in  the  East  Indies,"  "Adventures  < 


Slaver,"  "Running  the  Blockade,"  etc.,  etc. 


Europe," 
on   a 


Now  for  a  rush.— Cut  them  to  pieces!" 


A    FASCINATING    STORY    OF    ADVENT"""- 


A  wnaiemans  Aoventures 

AT  SEA,  IN  THE  SANDWICH  ISLANDS  AND  CALIFORNIA. 


Author  of  "  THK  GOLD  HUNTERS'  ADVENTURES  IN  AUSTRALIA,"  "  TH«  BUSHBANGMH," 

"RUNNIKO   THK   BLOCKADE,"    6tC.,  6tC. 


1"liir-*y— 


SOLD  ON  ALL  RAILWAY  TRAINS  AND  BY  ALL  BOOKSELLERS. 


RUNNING    THE    BLOCKADE; 

OR,   U.   S.   SECRET   SERVICE    ADVENTURES. 

By  WM.  H.  TftOMES,  Authtr  »f  "The  Gold  Hunters-  Adventures  in  Australia? 
'•  The  Bushrangers"  "Running  the  Blockade"  ttc,^  etc. 


ELEGANTLY    AND    PROFUSELY    ILLUSTRATED. 


"F«r  *•  Lerd's  lake,  don't  do  dat.    Dis  nig  is  almost  cut  to  pieces  now.    Him  l«gs 
It  one  mass  of  rings." 


The  Gold  Hunters  in  Europe 


—  OR  — 

THE    DEAD   ALIVE. 


Do  yon  glra  younelvei  In  cuttody  ?  * 


Author  of  "  THI  OOLD  HTTNTXHS'  ADVBNTUHES  is  ATJSTBALIA,"  "Tmt 
"RUNNING  THH  BLOOKADB,"  etc..  etc. 


-witli. 


•OLD  ON  ALL  RAILWAY  TRAINS  AND  BT  ALL  BOOKSELLER*. 


w 


A     000124553     9 


